


White Room

by Ben_Solos_Writing_Avenger_203



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Sexual Assault, F/M, Psychological Trauma, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues, the love story arthur fleck deserved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:40:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23394151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ben_Solos_Writing_Avenger_203/pseuds/Ben_Solos_Writing_Avenger_203
Summary: This story starts directly after the events of Joker (2019), when Arthur meets Harleen in Arkham. Enjoy <3
Relationships: Arthur Fleck & Harleen Quinzel, Arthur Fleck/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 35
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

_He’s evil._

_He’s a murderer._

_He’d kill you without a second thought, and he’d smile doing it._

Those were the things her fellow therapists at Arkham whispered about the new inmate. Harleen had believed it – she’d watched the news, that night when Gotham had burst into flames and ruin.

But two days later, in the gleaming white-tiled room, she couldn’t connect those images of the maniac killer with the man sitting opposite her. He was handcuffed to the cold metal table between them, his cheeks hollow and the shadows under his eyes resembled the blue triangles he’d drawn onto his face. And he was thin, _really_ thin. She made a mental note to talk to his doctor about that.

He hadn’t looked at her once in those thirty minutes they’d been in the white room together – not even as she’d entered the room and taken the opposite seat. His dark curls fell into his face, obscuring his features. The smoke of the cigarette he held swirled around him like mist. Harleen intended to give him the time he needed until he’d finally talk to her. _If_ he ever decided to talk to her.

So, since there wasn’t anything else to do, she just kept staring at him like a weirdo. But he seemed too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice, and Harleen couldn’t help but think about what it was that he was thinking about. A strange kind of… interest. Which wasn’t new to her; it was what had drawn her to studying psychology in the first place. That, and the urge to help others. She’d grown up in a loving but poor family in the East End, witnessing what the city and its society did to the people living there. Harleen had seen the first corpse on a sunny autumn day on her way to catch the school bus. None of the other passers-by had even spared a second glance. She shook away the memories clouding her thoughts, and again focused on the convicted murderer in front of her.

Arthur was his name. Arthur Fleck. He’d grown up in the East End as well. Which wasn’t a huge surprise – a third of Gotham’s inhabitants lived in the slums of the East End. Her gaze swept over the pages in his patient record. One convicted murder, but he was suspect in the investigation concerning the triple-murder in the subway a few weeks ago. But there wasn’t enough evidence yet.

She’d never seen the footage of the show in which he’d shot the famous host. Opposing her colleagues, Harleen stuck to her policy of never going into a therapy session with prejudices. She wanted to get to know the patient in the situation, instead of gathering information about them beforehand. It seemed unfair – the patient got to know her only in the sessions, as well. Safe to say, the others often made fun of her methods, of her softheartedness in a city as cold and vile as Gotham.

His strands of hair shifted a little and she saw the badly stitched cut that severed his left eyebrow. He sported a black eye as well; but he shifted in his seat and his dark strands fell back into his face before she could see his eyes. He’d had a car accident, Harleen remembered, right before the police had brought him to Arkham.

She wondered how an obviously injured, reed-thin and quiet person such as Arthur could require the highest level of security. There were two guards positioned in front of the door, with guns and bullet-proof vests. Maybe it was the level of ridiculous security applied to Arthur that had made him laugh. Harleen wondered why they didn’t give her a bullet-proof vest as well, if her patient was that dangerous. Maybe he was just playing the role of a defeated inmate, just to bide his time and strike at the first opportunity? Harleen wasn’t stupid; she knew that psychopathic persons were unpredictable and clever in their manipulations. But again, _something_ told her that she didn’t have to be scared by him. There was nothing vile or menacing about Arthur, and that’s what further fuelled her interest in his story. What had happened to him to make him a murderer? Was he a psychopath, toying with her like a cat with its prey? It seemed like a joke that the broken man in front of her had become the figurehead of the riots that still raged on in Gotham’s filthy, burning streets.

Suddenly, Arthur fell into a fit of laughter as if he’d had the very same thought, catapulting Harleen out of her own contemplations. He still didn’t look at her, but he continued giggling. Harleen wondered if it was _real_ laughter, or the laughter his neurological condition forced upon him. She couldn’t imagine how brutal school must have been for him, and a wave of compassion washed over her.

“I’m sorry, just thought about a joke”, he finally told her, his gaze still locked at the metal table in front of him. It was the first time he’d spoken to her, and his voice was low and raspy.

“Would you tell me?”, Harleen asked, her voice gentle to let him know that she wasn’t making fun of him.

And finally, he looked up and met her gaze. His blue-green eyes hit her like a train and Harleen felt her heart stumbling a little.

Arthur Fleck – the Joker, as Gotham’s rioters had started to call him – didn’t look like a criminal. At all. Harleen had treated enough psychopaths and murderers in her three years in Arkham to notice the difference. Arthur didn’t have that vile spark in his eyes as he held her gaze for a few seconds. He just looked broken and defeated.

Arthur flashed her a weary smile and whispered, “You wouldn’t get it.”

***

_I’ll never be good enough for her. I’ll never be normal enough for her. I’ll never be pretty enough for her._

Those thoughts kept circling through Arthur’s head as he’d made his way back into his cell, accompanied by the two bulky security guards. And they continued as he sat on his bunk and stared at the white wall of his cell. Everything in Arkham was white. The hallways, the cells, the therapy rooms, the clothes. As if the blinding white could somehow wash away the darkness of the place and its inhabitants.

He’d never been good or funny or pretty enough for anyone. Arthur closed his eyes and let his imagination carry him away for a little while, away from white-tiled walls and handcuffs, into a life where he wasn’t a convicted murderer, and where he was handsome and worthy to be loved. If he’d met her in that life, he would’ve asked her on a date. He would’ve brought her flowers and made her laugh with his jokes. He imagined how her beautiful face would look like if she smiled, and what it would feel like if she smiled at him.

Somewhere, someone screamed in agony, catapulting him back into the cold, white reality of his prison cell. Screams weren’t rare here in Arkham, that much he’d already learned. He stood and walked toward the small mirror on the wall. Even through the dull glass, he could see how worn out he looked. Dark shadows under his eyes, cuts and bruises all over his face, hollowed out cheeks. All Arthur could see was a hideous monster. He flinched and turned away, resisting the urge to punch the stupid mirror. His stupid, ugly reflection.

He knew all too well what his mother would’ve said if she was still alive, if he’d told her about how beautiful his therapist was. _What would she want with someone like **you**?_

In the therapy session, he hadn’t been able to utter a single word, panicked that he’d burst into a fit of laughter and scare her off. Well, she already knew he was a freak. It didn’t matter, anyway. He was a monster – and he’d liked it. Loved it. Those few moments as he’d danced on the shattered police car, his blood sketching a smile onto his face, the crowd cheering for him as the fires painted the night in hues of blood and destruction… he’d felt _alive_. For the first time in his life, he’d known what it felt like to be truly alive and seen. He wanted more of that. If he failed to make people laugh, to bring joy and happiness into the world, maybe he’d be able to be the freak Gotham city needed right now.

It was true what he’d told Murray, that he didn’t believe in these things, that he wasn’t political and had never intended to start these riots. But maybe, that had been his fate all along. They might have washed out his hair dye and greasepaint, but Artur knew that they couldn’t take away that feeling of being alive.

Arthur Fleck was a nobody. The Joker… could be more.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few sessions had all proceeded the same way. Arthur Fleck had never again looked at her; he just sat silent, waiting until their time was up and he was escorted back into his isolation cell.

Harleen didn’t know what to do. In her three years as a psychologist in Arkham, she’d never been in a situation like that. She’d had talked to many patients. Some of them had screamed at her, threatening to kill her or worse; some of them had cried and broken down and she’d call for a doctor to inject some sedatives – happy juice, her colleagues called them – and many had ogled at her and catcalled her. But never had a patient just ignored her. Her time at university had failed to prepare her for the enigma that was Arthur Fleck.

Of course, she could always pass on Arthur’s sessions to a colleague, especially since she was still viewed as the new one, fresh from university and too soft for the job, but that was exactly why she didn’t do it. She wanted to prove herself, and – if she was being totally honest with herself – she wanted to help Arthur. She wanted to hear his story and solve the riddle of the man behind the clown-mask.

Harleen threw a glance at the clock on the wall in the nurse’s room. It had been a long day, and it was already nine in the evening. Most of the other psychologists had already clocked out and headed home to their partners and families. But Harleen didn’t have anyone to wait for her, so she went and grabbed Arthur’s patient files to study them – she hadn’t had the time to do it in the week since he’d come to Arkham. Now, with only the simmering of the headlights and the blaring sirens from outside for company, she found the time had come to get a better look at his past.

Except that there was nothing there. Only a list of injuries from the car accident, a police report from the night of the riots when Arthur had shot Murray Franklin, and a list of psychopharmaceuticals some doctor working for social services had prescribed. Most of them had been antidepressants, a few anxiolytics. At the moment, Arthur hadn’t been prescribed any drugs apart from a light painkiller for his still broken ribs, and Harleen would make sure it stayed that way. She wanted to know who he really was, without the haze of medication.

As she skimmed through the police report – again – she felt…off. She was his psychologist, she _had_ to do it, but that didn’t change the way she felt about it. The patient files wouldn’t give her an answer, at least not the answer to the questions pestering her. Only Arthur Fleck himself could give her these answers. With a huff, she closed the folder and decided it was time to go home. Back to the loneliness of her crammed little apartment.

***

Harleen lived in the poverty-stricken East End of the city, just as she’d always done. That’s where she grew up, and if she was being honest with herself, that’s where she’d die, as well. Like many others.

The only reason why shed made it to college was the scholarship she’d been granted by Gotham State University. The price for it had been years and years of studying instead of spending time with the friends she’d wished to have.

It had brought her about five blocks away from her childhood home. Her wage as a therapist in Arkham was barely enough to pay the astronomical rent for the tiny apartment she’d moved into just after college, sharing the crammed little space with her flatmate who worked as a night-shift nurse in the Gotham General Hospital.

The girl was cool – a good kind of cool, but still intimidatingly cool. That kind of cool that showed Harleen just how _not_ cool she was. Her hair was dyed in all colours of the rainbow, she wore a lot of makeup and a hoodie with the crest of a school Harleen didn’t know but which later had turned out to be the crest of a wizarding school. Harleen hadn’t had much time to read any fun books in her life, and it showed.

Also, the girl was aggressively chewing bubble gum while she took in Harleen, and probably deemed her the most boring person to ever be on her couch in the process. The problem was: Harleen wasn’t good with people, at least not with people who weren’t handcuffed to a metal table most of the conversation. That made her a great therapist, and a really awkward person in real life.

“So, you’re searching for a flatmate. With a flat”, the girl – she’d introduced herself as Sky asked, her eyes still scanning Harleen’s boring shirt and cardigan. Harleen gave her a single nod, wondering if Sky was the girl’s real name.

“And you’ve just become a therapist at Arkham Asylum.” Again, Harleen gave a confirming nod.

“Okay, then I guess I really have to be careful now with what I’m saying”, Sky jested.

“Too late”, Harleen quipped sarcastically, but her joke was met with a careful glance.

“I’m not Hannibal Lecter”, Harleen tried to save the situation.

“Yet”, Sky countered, but started to grin. “I mean, it wouldn’t be surprising to go mad in a city like Gotham. So, Harleen, since you’re the only girl who’s applied to be my flatmate, and since your competition consists of a guy who looked and smelled like something dead, I guess you’ve got the room. And the graces of my company.” Another gleaming smile, which Harleen gladly returned.

“Great. Now, let me show you the flat.”

That had been three years ago, and apart from the education in fantasy-fandoms Harleen had been forced into by Sky, nothing had changed in those years. The two girls barely saw each other, with Harleen working by day and Sky in the nights; with Harleen favourably staying at home in her free time and Sky never skipping a party in hers. Still, Sky was Harleen’s best and – to be quite honest – only friend.

Harleen ordered pizza and let herself sink into the plushy sofa in the living room, trying to fend off the incoming headache.

***

Arthur had lost track of the time. He spent the days in a haze, waiting for his therapy sessions in the white room, always thinking about how he still couldn’t talk to her without making an absolute fool of himself.

_Pathetic. Spineless and pathetic._

As if nothing had changed since he’d become the Joker. As if he could never escape the worthless existence of Arthur Fleck.

His cuts and bruises were slowly healing but the pain of his several broken ribs was still jolting through him with every single move slowly, far away from subsiding. Broken ribs weren’t treated – he knew that, he’d lost count of how many times his ribs had been broken in his sorry life – but nobody even prescribed him some medication to ease the pain.

The guards escorting him to therapy and back to his cell again knew that, and they made use of that knowledge, jabbing him in the ribs as often as the opportunity presented itself. Arthur made sure not to let the burning agony searing through his body show, forcing his features into a smile. Just as his mother had taught him. Old habits die hard. The pain was at its worst if the stress and panic of knowing to be punched again would trigger another of his laughing fits, wracking his body until his laughter turned into choked sobs.

Arthur was glad they’d put him in solitary confinement. The silence of his little cell was what kept him from going completely insane. He’d rather not think about what the other inmates of Arkham would do to him, but judging from the guard’s sadistic tendencies, he was happy he wouldn’t have to find out.

Sometimes, staring at the cobweb-covered ceiling of his cell, Arthur tried to imagine what Gotham looked like now. It’s been a week since the night he’d shot Murray and hell had broken loose. He wondered if the city was still burning, if the rioters who had cheered for him that night still remembered the self-proclaimed joker.

During therapy, he and Dr. Quinzel had come to the silent agreement of not talking to each other while staring into different corners of the room, as if the walls were the most interesting thing they’d ever beheld. She always greeted him in her soft voice and he always gave her a short nod in return, careful to not look at her. The last and only time he’d answered one of her questions – as to why he was laughing – and he’d made eye contact, she had stared at him in shock. Arthur was used to people staring at him in all variations of shock, disgust or horror, but getting that look from _her_ was more than he could stomach.

So, his sole purpose in those therapy sessions was getting glimpses of her when she couldn’t catch him staring. Like a creep.

Even in the harsh artificial neon lights, she was breathtakingly beautiful. Her eyes were bright and gleaming with intelligence, her hair was flowing over her shoulders in soft waves, leaving him wondering about how it would feel to his touch. He didn’t even know her, hadn’t even talked to her in more than one sentence, but he felt that weird urge to protect her from the viciousness seeping through Gotham city like poison. Arthur wasn’t stupid. He had seen how women, especially young women like her, were treated. His thoughts rushed back to the night he’d shot those three guys in the subway, adrenaline surging through him as he’d pulled the trigger. They’d deserved it, but he wondered how many more of their kind were roaming the city, attacking people who couldn’t defend themselves.

Just then, she raised her chin and threw him a sideways glance and Arthur managed to redirect his own stare just in time.

***

Dawn had only just started, painting the sky in hues of dark blue and pink, the streetlamps still illuminating the mostly empty streets as Harleen made her way to the subway station a few blocks from her flat.

Black piles of garbage loomed at every corner, mixing with the stench that blanketed the city. Loose pages of newspapers littering the streets fluttered in a cold breeze. Still, all front pages sported black-and-white drawings of the Joker, sharp teeth and evil eyes glaring from the paper. Ridiculous. Other, newer papers had grey, washed out photos of him on the Murray Franklin Show as he’d entered the stage, frozen in mid-dance, a beaming smile directed at the camera. Harleen hurried to looked away. Gotham city hadn’t forgotten that fateful night, and the riots were still raging on. Protestors attacking the police and very person in a business suit, burning cars, gunshots ringing through the night and the never-ceasing howl of sirens blaring.

Burnt out cars decorated the littered sides of the streets; colourful clown masks were scattered over the plaster. Harleen wonderer if Arthur had any idea of the inferno he’d unleashed upon Gotham. Probably not. Still, she just couldn’t believe the quiet, broken man in the white therapy room, his wrists nearly too thin for the handcuffs to hold him, could be that same famous clown that had united the poor souls of Gotham city against the middle and upper class dwelling in their beautiful flats and penthouses. The spark of hate and injustice had simmered for a long time now, beneath the surface, but now, it had burned its way into the light of day, spreading chaos and destruction and taking the city down with it.

Harleen had the feeling that it was just the beginning.

***

The perks of having to clock in at work at 6.30 am were, that the subway was still half-empty; it was the calm just before rush hour. As Harleen watched the rows of grey buildings pass by the filthy windows of the subway car, taking sips of the still hot coffee in her thermos to eliminate the last fog of sleep clouding her thoughts, she could feel the stare. _Don’t. Just don’t talk to me_ , she silently prayed, in the very moment a man in his early fifties, wearing a dark suit, positioned himself in the opposite seat, giving her a winning smile.

“Hey there”, he crooned. It was not a friendly tone, and it most definitely wasn’t the first time some jerk tried to hit on her in the subway.

Harleen gave him a cold glace to signalize that yes, she’d heard him and no, she didn’t want to talk to him. Which he ignored. Just as they always did.

“Something wrong, doll? No need to be so unfriendly. What about a little smile, eh?”

“I’m not your doll”, she retorted, her gaze still glued to the world passing by outside the windowpane. Until a sweaty hand was placed on her knee.

With a jolt, Harleen produced the spray bottle of mace out of her jacket, holding it up. The man let go of her knee, still giving her that arrogant smile. This time, she held his gaze, requiting it with as much wrath as she could muster – given that it was six in the morning, that wasn’t a challenge. With one last glance at the raised can of pepper spray, he rose from his seat, hissing “Little bitch” as he made his way down the narrow corridor, away from her.

With a sigh, Harleen put the mace back into her pocket. Nothing she wasn’t used to, but nothing she’d ever grow accustomed to, either. And of course, none of the other people in the car had attempted to help her, staring ahead because it just wasn’t their business. Still, there were worse people roaming the streets. The feeling of unease, however, would accompany her throughout the day.

***

Arthur was already chained to the metal table in the middle of the room as Harleen stepped through the heavy security door, the lock clicking into place as it fell shut behind her.

“Hello”, she greeted him as she let took a seat opposite of him. It was day 8 of their therapy, and Harleen didn’t really expect any greeting except from the occasional nod that he’d heard her.

“Is- is everything okay? With you?”

Harleen’s head shot up from the file she was rifling through to get to the next page for the daily therapy protocol. She stared at him for a second, but he’d already averted his gaze, putting his hands down on his bobbing knee. A nervous tick Harleen hadn’t noticed before.

“I’m… sorry. It doesn’t concern me”, he added quietly, his voice raspy from not talking for days.

“It’s okay”, Harleen hurried to say, “I just didn’t expect you to say anything.”

She bit her lip, waiting for him to answer, but he just huffed. He was staring at the table in front of him.

“Actually, no. My morning was… not so great. I was just shocked that somebody actually noticed”, she explained, her gaze fixed on him.

With a silent huff, he finally raised his head and locked his gaze with hers. Again, Harleen’s heart skipped a little beat. _It’s just because of the unusual colour of his eyes_ , she thought.

A sad smile crossed his features.

“I’m sorry to hear. Most people in this city aren’t very nice”, he agreed in his quiet, raspy voice.

“Yes, they aren’t.”

Silence, again. Harleen shut the folder with the patient files and slid it over the metal table away from her, to indicate that she was ready to listen to him.

When he dropped his gaze again, she took another chance.

“Arthur, how are your injuries?”

He seemed a little taken aback by the question and Harleen realized with a pang of sadness that he probably hadn’t been asked too often about how he felt, _really_ felt; at least not in Arkham.

“Better. A little.” He gave her a faint little smile that never reached his eyes.

“Do you need any more pain killers for the broken ribs?”, she asked, remembering the prescription sheet.

Arthur just stared at her as if she was making fun of him.

“I never got any pain killers”, he told her, the sad smile vanished from his face, his gaze clouding over with… distrust?

Harleen felt a lump in her throat.

“They…” Shaking her head in disbelief, she grabbed the folder and skimmed through the pages until she reached the medical record with the doctor’s prescription scrawled at the bottom of the page in unruly handwriting.

“The doctor prescribed you a painkiller.”

“I’m not lying”, he said, his voice barely a whisper. Harleen could feel the shift in the mood, as if the room’s temperature had dropped several degrees.

She knew that he told the truth. And she was ashamed she had never asked the question before. She could have done this for him, at least helping him release the pain of his several broken ribs. Shame washed over her. _I was just shocked that somebody actually noticed. Most people in this city aren’t very nice._

“Arthur? I believe you.” It sounded lame. He had again sought refuge in his own mind, refusing to look at her again.

“I’m sorry. I’ll make sure you’ll get your painkillers.”

He didn’t answer. The rest of the session went on as it always did: in silence. As if that little conversation in the beginning had never even happened.

***

When Arthur was back in his small, lonely cell, he was still shaking. He felt the oncoming fit of laughter as he leaned against the wall, sinking towards the cold, hard concrete floor.

_Of course she thinks I’m a liar. She most definitely thinks worse things about me than only that._

Arthur wished he could disappear. A feeling that wasn’t new to him. At least, he’d managed to fight down the laughing fit that had threatened to overcome him in the white room, but as soon as the heavy door had closed behind him and he was alone again, he couldn’t fend of the laughter any longer.

_Pathetic. You’re abnormal. You’re worthless._

He couldn’t stop thinking these things.

_Because they are true. You know it’s the truth._

As the laughing finally subsided, leaving him desperately trying to catch his breath, his broken ribcage burning as if it was on fire, he thought about how Dr. Quinzel – who usually radiated that kind of silent liveliness – had looked so tired. What could possibly have happened to make her this defeated today.

Arthur cursed himself for having asked about it. Had he just stuck to not talking to her, he’d have been able to imagine she didn’t think bad of him just for a little longer.

But Arthur hated seeing people sad. As someone who’d never in his life experienced real happiness, he knew how it felt to be sad. After all he’d done, that had never changed. He wanted people to be happy.

And he just couldn’t stop contemplating what could have happened to make her sad. It bugged him. Having been a victim to all kinds of shitty persons for his whole life, he could imagine a whole range of nasty behaviours that could’ve happened to her today. The newly-found glimmer of rage in his chest sparked to life again.

He didn’t even know her, hadn’t even talked to her in more than one sentence, but he felt that weird urge to protect her from the viciousness seeping through Gotham city like poison. Arthur wasn’t stupid. He had seen how women were treated. Just like people such as him were treated. The outsiders and underdogs of Gotham city. His thoughts rushed back to the night he’d shot those three guys in the subway, adrenaline surging through him as he’d pulled the trigger. They’d deserved it, but he wondered how many more of their kind were roaming the streets, attacking people who couldn’t defend themselves.

He took a shuddering breath and leaned his head back against the wall, getting more and more restless. There wasn’t anything to do, and the cigarettes were rationed. The lack thereof, combined with the lack of anything to do and the thoughts about the injustices of the world were starting to take a toll on him. If he at least had his old journal with him to work on some new jokes and distract himself from the never-ending stream of thoughts fluttering through his mind like moths…

_Don’t you have to be funny to be a comedian?_

His mother’s words blaring through his mind. She’d always been like this. Never supportive, never interested in anything he did. As long as he had smiled, everything had been good, and over time, every single thought of self-hatred and doubt had taken on Penny Fleck’s screeching voice in his head.

Screw that stupid journal. He wasn’t funny, not in the least. He knew that now.

_Check out this joker…_

When the tray with his dinner was slid into his cell, Arthur was surprised to find two little white pills on it. Painkillers.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day as she entered the white therapy room, unsure of what to expect after the misunderstanding the day before, Harleen was surprised as Arthur briefly caught her gaze to greet her with a whispered “Hi”.

“Thank you. For the – the painkillers”, he stammered in his low, raspy voice. Harleen gave him a short nod. She was still fuming with rage about how the nurses had refused to give Arthur the prescribed painkillers and on top of that, how they’d made fun of Harleen’s annoyance about it.

“What’s the matter. He killed all those people, he doesn’t deserve painkillers”, they’d said and Harleen, as always, had swallowed down her rage and instead had opted for just bringing those painkillers to Arthur’s cell herself every evening – to the dismay of the guards stationed on the hallway containing the isolation cells. For them, taking those painkillers to Arthur was the same as openly admitting to side with him, the killer in cold blood. Harleen knew she would’ve done it for every single one of her patients.

“Do they help?”, she wanted to know, trying and failing to catch his glance. His hands on the table were trembling slightly and she noticed that he didn’t hold a cigarette between his fingers as usual; at the same time as she thought _there’s an ‘as usual now’_.

“Y-Yes.”

He was nervous. You didn’t need to have a degree in psychology to notice how nervous he was. Why was he nervous? Or did he just play the part?

“Are you feeling better?”

In the split second their gazes locked, Harleen lost all her doubt. Again, the look in his blue eyes was genuine, displaying real concern.

“You know, for a supposed killer you don’t exactly look as menacing as I’d expected when I first entered this room”, Harleen told him. It was bold, but she was driven by her need to find out if the shy and quiet man in front of her was the _real_ Arthur Fleck, not a role he played and shed as it served him.

He gave a little huff as his mouth lifted into a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it-smile, his gaze avoiding her again.

“Sorry to disappoint”, he replied drily.

Now, it was her turn to smile, but with his gaze firmly locked onto his hands on the table, he didn’t see it.

“Sarcasm wasn’t what I’d expected, either”, she admitted in a light tone, “I like surprises.”

“As a clown, I could’ve jumped out of a giant cake, but they didn’t let me.”

Harleen gave a small chuckle at his comment. _Definitely not what I expected_. At the soft sound, his head shot up and he stared at her for a few heartbeats. She stared right back, caught in the colour of his eyes, the surprise written over his face.

In search for anything to say that would make him hold her gaze, continue to talk to her, she asked the first question that flitted through her mind.

“Arthur, what do _you_ think?”

She mentally rolled her eyes at how cliché that sentence had sounded, even to herself. But Arthur didn’t seem to notice or – at least – to mind. Now, he just stared at her like a deer in the headlights. Just as she started to contemplate if she somehow did something wrong, what to say to change the subject but keep him talking to her –

“I think you’re beautiful.”

Her heart skipped a few beats and she felt the blush creeping on her cheeks.

She opened her mouth to say something (what, she didn’t know), and was cut off by a fit of laughter escaping his throat, making her jump in her seat.

It hurt to see – not the laughing fit itself, but to see how desperately he tried to restrain it. He raised his cuffed wrists to cover his mouth and stop the fit, the chains rattling against the metal table. Arthur was laughing, but there was so much pain in it, choking him, racking his thin form. Harleen could see how people thought of him as a madman, why they feared him. But she wasn’t people, and she knew of his condition.

“I’m – sorry”, he choked out, tears streaming from his eyes over his hands that he still pressed over his mouth to somehow stop the laughter. Tears of pain or humiliation, probably both.

Harleen felt it, his pain, and there was nothing she wanted to do more than reach out for him, take his hands in hers. Just as she made a move to raise her hand over the table, the rules for handling patients flared in her mind like a giant warning sign.

_Never engage emotionally._

_Never touch them._

_Always keep your distance; mentally as well as physically._

So that’s what Harleen did, and she could practically feel her heart breaking.

“Don’t be sorry”, she whispered. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

Harleen didn’t even know if he could hear her.

***

It had been horrible. Never, _never_ in his entire life had the wish to just vanish been bigger; not even as he’d stood on the stage at Pogo’s in a desperate and failed attempt at stand-up comedy. _Never_.

It had been his worst nightmare come true. The laughter tearing through him like claws, threatening to rip him apart, the inability to stop, and – worst of all – that look in her face. The look her beautiful, bright eyes had given him. A mix of pity and horror and disgust. Arthur knew that look, that’s the look people had given him all his life, no matter if he’d been laughing or not. But somehow, seeing that look in her eyes…

 _Don’t be sorry_ , she’d told him. _You don’t have to be sorry_.

He felt sorry for himself, but he felt way sorrier for her, to be forced to talk to him and be in the same room with him for nearly an hour every day. He was hideous, he knew that.

She’d chuckled because of something he’d said. Just for a second, but the sound had been beautiful. He wanted to hear it again. Another thought crossed his mind, like dark clouds covering a former sunny sky. Had it even been real amusement? Or did she just laugh to keep him talking or – oh God, did she laugh _at_ him? It was more likely than laughing with him, since nobody had ever laughed _with_ him.

 _I think you’re beautiful_. He’d never talked to a woman that wasn’t his mother, but Arthur was sure that’s not how it worked. To her, he was only another madman to get through therapy. Oh god. What if the compliment had scared her? He’d just said the words, without another thought. And then, the shock about his own sudden boldness that had triggered the laughing fit had hit him like a tsunami. Arthur was sure even if she hadn’t been scared away before, now she’d be.

And just thinking about what had happened earlier was starting to trigger another laughing fit. He could feel it starting in his stomach, bubbling up. Now, in the solidity of his cell, he didn’t have to go through the pain of even trying to suppress it – not that he’d ever been successful with that.

As the laughs started shaking him again, reverberating from the walls through the emptiness of the room, he caught his reflection in the mirror.

He tried to scream, a scream that was loud enough to silence the cackling that was shaking his body, but even screaming was futile. He just wanted to make it stop.

As the next wave of laughs hit him, drowned him, he raised his fist and punched it into the mirror; into his own contorted reflection that seemed to laugh at him. 

_Make it stop, Happy,_ Penny’s voice whispered in his head _. It’s not normal. Something is wrong with you._

His fist hit the cool glass with a crunch, pain jolting through his knuckles that gave him a short relief of the pain still searing his ribs.

A net of fine cracks had appeared in the mirror’s glass, like a bolt of lightning. But the mirror didn’t break; other than the burning, bruised skin on his hand.

He’d tried so hard to be someone else, and for one night of flames and ruin, he’d succeeded – to realize he’d never be able to be anything more than hideous, weird, disgusting Arthur Fleck.

***

She shook her head and tried to focus on the heap of paperwork in front of her. The sun had set in front of the dirt-streaked windows, the only light now was emitted from the humming desk lamp, casting dark shadows on the walls. The clock on the opposite wall showed her that it was past eight pm already. The numbness of the shock hadn’t completely subsided yet. She tried hard to forget about Arthur’s pained expression when the laughing fit had hit him, feeling regret to have followed the rules instead doing what had felt right and just take his hand. Now that she’d seen the whole force of his condition instead of only reading about it, she had a hard time not to imagine how cruel his time at school, his whole life must have been. People were cruel. If you were different and didn’t fit in, you had a huge target painted on your back.

How many punches did he already have to take for his laughter?

_I think you’re beautiful._

The shock over his own words had been written all over his face in the few seconds until he was hit by the cruel fit of laughter. It didn’t matter if he thought she was beautiful. But it hadn’t been the words of someone trying to hit on her, and it hadn’t made her uncomfortable either. Because he hadn’t meant it as an attempt to flirt, he’d just told her what he’d thought because she had asked him to.

“Stop it”, she chided herself, shaking her head as if that would help to stop the images hailing down on her mind. She concentrated on the steady tick-tock of the clock on the wall, the eerie silence filling the space. Not a single scream echoed through the hallways, not a single doctor shouted at a nurse for another coffee. It was as peaceful as a place like Arkham could get – peaceful and lonely.

Studying to become a therapist, Harleen would’ve never thought of the job as lonely; you had co-workers, patients. But it _was_ lonely. 

Three years into the job, and she was still the youngest therapist at Arkham, and one of the very few women. Her – male, elder – co-workers often seemed to see her as an intern rather than an equal colleague, and it bugged her. However, she was too nice to say no for once when they left her another heap of paperwork to attend to, and she hated herself for it.

 _“You’re a girl”_ , her foster mom had always told her, _“People don’t want you to say no. They want you to swallow and give them a pretty smile. It’ll make life much easier, my dear.”_

Harleen wasn’t sure it had.

With a sigh, she closed the last record file and stood to bring the stack of closed patient files back to the archives. They wouldn’t be required anymore since the patient had left Arkham. Most of them left in body bag.

Wandering the halls of the asylum after the sun had set never failed to give her chills. Arkham was one of those old buildings with a history fit to host many ghosts in its dark corridors. To end up here, you needed to at least have one of the following three things: mental illness, severe trauma, or blood on your hands. Arkham simply wasn’t a happy place, but Harleen found it to be the most bearable in the night-time. When the sun had set, the shadows of the building were finally dark enough to even out the darkness within. Ascribing this darkness to supernatural things was much easier than thinking about the very real, very human reasons why Arkham was haunted.

As the seemingly endless walk through the labyrinth of hallways and corridors, accompanied by flickering lights, disembodies howls and screaming had brought her to the archive, she could feel exhaustion seeping through her bones.

“Hello?”, she called out through the barred window of the archive. At daytime, she’d always use the staff-entrance to the archive, but at night she patiently waited at the window to avoid startling the night clerk.

“Hey there, little one”, a deep voice greeted her and a moment later, Jeff smiled at her from the other side of the barred window. Jeff was in his forties and one of the friendliest persons Harleen had ever met in her life.

“I’ve finished these”, Harleen said as she let the heavy stack of files fall onto the desk.

“Busy bee”, Jeff mused and pulled the stack towards him.

“Since when do you work the evening shift?”, she wondered. “Don’t you only work at daytime?”

Jeff huffed. “I was degraded after some weirdo stole a file a few weeks ago. He was troubled, and I got careless out of sympathy. Poor fellow. I don’t think it made him happy to read what was inside that file…” He trailed off, sorting through the stack Harleen had brought.

“Did they catch him?”, she wanted to know.

“Nah.” He shrugged. “At least, not that I know of.”

Jeff turned to sort the stack of files, as a thought shot through her mind.

“Hey, Jeff? Do you have any files on the name ‘Fleck’?”

It was a shot in the dark, but Harleen had the feeling she’d missed something. Something important, that could maybe help her in getting closer to Arthur’s many secrets.

Jeff furrowed his brow.

“That was the name on the stolen file. Penny Fleck.”

Harleen felt her heart starting to hammer in her chest as she took a step closer. “Who stole the file, Jeff?”

“It was her son.” Jeff was speaking slowly now, his gaze unfocused, trying to remember something. “Not her real son, though, the file said that Penny Fleck had adopted a child. Can’t remember the name. I skimmed over the file before I decided the poor fellow shouldn’t see what was in there. I tried to get rid of him, but he grabbed the folder and ran like a shopaholic on Black-Friday-sales. That guy was fast.”

“What did the record say?”

“Harleen… is everything okay? You seem a little flustered.”

She gave him an absentminded nod.

“Listen, I don’t remember anything, little one. I’m sorry, but there are so many files I read every single day. I can’t remember that specific one. I only remember the guy who stole it. He was lanky and weird, and he seemed troubled, but that’s all.”

“Could you have a look if there are any other documents on the name? Please, Jeff. I need to know.”

Harleen knew that it wasn’t about a job anymore. Maybe, it hadn’t been about the job from the first time she’d met Arthur. But if Arthur refused to talk to her, prying and finding out about him on her own was the only way to help him. And she was _desperate_ to help him.

With a small huff, Jeff vanished into the archive, to emerge only a few minutes later with a small cardboard box in his large hands.

“That’s all I could find. It’s not Penny Fleck, though, but about Arthur Fleck. Is that the son?”

“I don’t know”, Harleen admitted as she took the cardboard box; her hands slightly trembling. The box wasn’t heavy, but something rattled inside as she lifted it. She didn’t know – the name Fleck wasn’t that uncommon. Maybe there was no connection between Penny and Arthur; however, Jeff’s description of the file-thief matched Arthur. But then again, Arthur wasn’t the own lanky, troubled man in Gotham.

She told Jeff good night and hurried away. Around the first corner of the hallway, her curiosity got the best of her and she pried open the lid. Inside, nestled into something made of deep-red fabric, lay a notebook.

***

“Oh god, what do I do”, Harleen groaned at herself. She was sitting cross-legged on the old sofa that had been in their apartment for at least a century, the colourful flowery pattern faded to pale splotches.

It was nearly midnight, and Harleen had spent the last hour staring at the notebook in front of her. She knew she wouldn’t find sleep tonight, no matter if she decided to open the journal or not.

It was there, right in front of her. But should she really read it? It was personal. The notebook hadn’t been with Arthur’s official patient files, but in the box with his personal things he had on him the night he’d been taken to Arkham. Which meant it was none of her business.

_But what if it contains the answers that he won’t give me?_

She needed to know.

Harleen knew it was too late. She knew that her curiosity and fascination for Arthur would get the best of her. Seeing it this way, knowing she would open the notebook anyway in a matter of days, she could just as well do it now.

The booklet was worn, the paper thinned at the edges, as if it had been folded and unfolded and carried around for a long time.

A patient number was written on the top of the cover page. Beneath, Arthur’s name was scribbled down in a handwriting that looked like spider’s legs crawling over the paper.

It wasn’t a notebook, Harleen realized. It was a journal, one of those journals for patients to use as a diary and bring it with them every week for their therapy sessions to work with. There hadn’t been any records of Arthur’s therapy sessions in the social service centre, since the centre had closed not long ago, and all the files had been destroyed. Oh, the irony.

“Well, if it was something from his old therapy, then it’s not exactly prying”, she told herself.

With that, she opened the cover and began to read. The scrawly black letters filling the pages were hard to decipher at first, but Harleen got used to them after a few pages into reading.

**_I think it’s pretty clear I’m not just standing around in front of a cash register, for the hell of it how hard is it to ask “Hey are you in line”?_ **

The next page was scribbled with drawings of cats. They weren’t bad drawings, Harleen thought as she turned the page.

**_OBZERVASHINS_ **

This page was filled with what looked like a checklist.

**_-eye contact_ **

**_-good hairstyle??_ **

**_-sexy jokes always funny_ **

**_-always make funny obzervashins_ **

A little smile crossed Harleen’s face, though she didn’t exactly could tell why. It was just cute.

The smile vanished as fast as it had appeared as Harleen skimmed over to the next page.

**_The worst part of a mental illness is people expect you to behave as if you don’t_ **

The was a smiley face drawn into the o of ‘don’t’. He was right about that. That’s what society did to mentally ill people.

It got worse as she flicked through the next few pages, imagining how he’d written them, hunched over the pages, maybe frowning in concentration. Possibly with a cigarette in his other hand.

The handwriting was even messier than on the pages before, mirroring Arthur’s emotional state as he’d written the words, and Harleen couldn’t decipher the beginning of the page.

**_When I noticed there was an ambulance and the paramedics were standing over the homeless man. I walked over because I was inturested in what happened to him as I got near them I heard them say “what a way to go on the side walk”. What? Can you imagine that?? Dead on the sidewalk with peeple stepping over you. Maybe he’s happier but I don’t want to die with peeple just stepping over me. I want peeple to see me_ **

A tear fell out of her eyes, landing on the page like a stray raindrop, flowing into the ink in which Arthur had spilled his heart onto the worn pages. She hadn’t even noticed the tears welling up in her eyes. Yet, Harleen kept on reading.

**_I hope my death makes more cents than my life._ **

She could practically feel his pain through the scrawly letters. Had he thought of killing himself? Was there even anybody who would’ve cared if he had?

Imagine your whole life ends on a sidewalk. I wonder how old he was and how long no one cared about him for

The next two pages were filled with only one word, again and again.

**_Step step step step step step step step step …_ **

**_I don’t want to die on a sidewalk with peeple stepping over me. I want peeple to see me_ **

With a shaky breath, Harleen closed the journal. Arthur Fleck wasn’t a cold-hearted psychopath, but the exact opposite. He had so much empathy, even in these few passages she’d read. So much empathy that it literally hurt him how people treated each other in this damned city.

***

They were dancing. The music was a slow, drawling tune filling the small space of the apartment, and he lifted his arm to lead her into a small pirouette, her long hair flowing like a waterfall, her eyes gleaming at him through long, dark lashes. She twirled and he pulled her back toward him, into his arms. Her warmth radiated through her clothes, and she smiled up at him.

It was the next day, and Arthur had managed to calm down.

The daydream was broken, vanishing into thin air like smoke when the door to his cell flew open with such force that it banged into the concrete wall. Arthur shot up from where he was lying on his bunk bed. It had been a beautiful, innocent daydream, but he felt a wave of shame wash over him – just for wanting it to be real, for wanting someone like her at his side when he clearly didn’t deserve her in the least. When he wanted something he’d never deserved, not even when he hadn’t had his hands covered in blood.

Two bulky silhouettes appeared in the doorway, one of them entering the cell, his heavy steps reverberating through the small space.

“Get up, you clown”, one of the guards seethed as he dragged Arthur from the bunkbed, his grip so firm around Arthur’s bony shoulder that he thought it might dislocate.

“W-where –?”, Arthur stammered, frantically thinking about what they’d do to him now, an assortment of unpleasant scenarios flitting through his head.

“You’re having lunch with the others today.”

A cruel smile tugged at the guard’s face, sending a wave of sickness through Arthur. The menacing grin widened as the man saw the horror in Arthur’s face, both exactly knowing what awaited Arthur upon meeting the other inmates.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur was silent, just staring ahead at the wall in front of him, careful to avoid any eye contact with the other inmates. He felt nauseated, his lunch tray in front of him was still untouched. He needed to calm down; it was only a matter of time until the level of stress would trigger another laughing fit, and if that happened…

He took a shaky breath.

“Hey there”, a deep voice crooned into his ear; the man was so close that Arthur could feel his hot, stale breath against his neck. His stomach twisted in fear. He didn’t answer, just hunched a little closer in a desperate but futile try to get invisible.

“Aren’t you that clown-freak?”

“Yeah”, someone drooled from down the table, “I heard one of the guards talking about him.”

“He doesn’t look the part”, another inmate chimed in.

“Hey, clownface”, the man right behind Arthur seethed, leaning slightly forward to have a look at him.

“You know what?”, the guy spoke up, so that everyone sitting nearby could hear him. Conversations around them were coming to a pause to watch the exchange in anticipation of what would certainly follow. Waiting for Arthur to make that one wrong move and see how it would end for the newly famous joker. Arthur was sure they’d all seen his live performance on the Murray Franklin Show.

“Seeing you now, I totally wish they’d let you put on that clown-makeup in here. Would be much better than seeing your ugly face”, the man continued his sneering at Arthur. And Arthur totally agreed. There was nothing he wished to do more that moment than to hide again behind the Joker’s mask. He still stared ahead, his clammy hands gripping his knees in order to stop them from shaking. Laughter began bubbling up his throat, but the man behind him was faster.

With a quick movement, he’d grabbed Arthur’s white overall and yanked him backwards with a sheer force that knocked the wind out of Arthur’s lungs.

With a thump, Arthur landed on his back, the impact with the cold linoleum-floor sending an agonizing flash of pain through his broken ribs. His vision went white for a split second and the scream of pain was stifled by a gush of laughter. Arthur knew: if he fainted, he’d never wake up again.

When the white flashes of pain subsided and his vision began to clear, he could finally see his attacker, and simultaneously wished he hadn’t. The man was huge, burly, the type of guy who had to make an effort to fit through a door.

The inmate’s fist connected with Arthur’s jaw, the sheer force sending Arthur a few metres backward until his head hit the back wall of the room with a crack and again, his vision blurred. But the man had only started, slowly strolling toward Arthur’s form with the gait of a man who knew he’d win this fight and do it in front of an audience cheering for him, even if everyone knew it wasn’t a fight if the other couldn’t defend himself.

Arthur felt something wet straining his cheeks and briefly wondered if it were tears of agony or his own blood. The man had reached him now. Arthur knew that he wouldn’t receive any help; not from the other inmates and certainly not from the guards standing by, sneering at him. It wasn’t new to Arthur. Nobody had ever helped him, but this time he knew there wasn’t even a slim chance that his attacker would stop.

The man made a final step towards him and leaned slightly forward so he was looming over Arthur, slowly raising his fist.

“Are you laughing at me, you fucking freak?! Or are you just batshit-crazy?”

 _No. No, no, no, no, no… not again. NOT again._ _Fight back._

Something flashed in his raised fist and only then, Arthur realised that the guy was holding a knife. Not a butter-knife, but a _real_ one; the sharp blade glinting in the artificial light.

A memory shot through Arthur’s head; a dead man on the sidewalk, people stepping over the corpse in the bright sunlight of the day, nobody caring that they were stepping over a dead body. And the dread Arthur had felt at that, at how it must be dying on the sidewalk with everyone just stepping over you.

Arthur realized that a similar fate awaited him, dying here, in this room, his blood staining the cheap, filthy linoleum floor. 

  1. He wouldn’t. He’d already fought back before; he’d done it in the subway, and in the hospital, and when he’d killed Randall and Murray _. Fight back. NOW._



It was as if a switch had been turned. Through the haze of pain and cackling laughter racking his body, Arthur’s hand shot forward, grabbing his attacker’s ankle and pulling it towards him, white-hot pain searing through his own ribs in the process but he needed to ignore that now, only for a little while longer…

It all seemed to happen very slowly. His attacker’s eyes widened in disbelief as he felt himself tumbling towards the ground, his looming posture having weakened his balance. The man had carried himself with the arrogance of someone who’d never lost a fight, being able to break someone as frail and weak as Arthur in a matter of seconds. But Arthur was fast, and years of abuse had prepared him for this moment.

Arthur rolled onto his hands and pushed himself up, using the wall for support. The adrenaline rushing through his system was beginning to numb his own pain; while his burly opponent crashed face-first to the floor. Arthur didn’t loose any time; he knew what he had to do. He’d done it before, in his apartment.

With a strength Arthur himself didn’t really know he possessed, he grabbed the man’s neck and slammed his head against the wall. With the third smash, his attacker’s skull gave in with a sickening crunch, the noise like footsteps on gravel, and blood sprayed in every direction.

_Finally, a little colour in all that dull white._

It was like a deja-vu. Arthur sunk to the ground, and there was a second of utter silence, only disturbed by his own thundering heartbeat, the blood rushing through his ears so loud he wondered if the other inmates and guards in the room could hear it as well.

He didn’t feel good or powerful or strong. Just empty, so unbelievably numb and empty, and relieved because now there was one less person in the world to hurt him.

Then, just as he let himself kneel on the ground and the numbing effect of the adrenaline slowly began to subside, all hell broke loose.

Inmates began to haul and cheer, and the guards sprinted towards Arthur. He didn’t attempt to run – there was nowhere to go, anyway – and his glance caught on something glittering on the ground. With a small, swift movement, he closed his fist around it, just as the guards tackled him to the ground.

They screamed at him, but Arthur didn’t understand their words as another unforgiving fit of laughter ran over him, again sending the searing pain through his body.

He laughed as the guards took him between them and began dragging him out of the dining hall, into the white, endless corridor behind the metallic safety doors, the howling and cheering accompanying them. He laughed while his gaze caught on his own reflection in the glass door beside him, leading to somewhere where only Arkham’s staff was allowed; and he was still laughing as his eyes caught the gaze of the woman standing right behind those glass doors. Dr. Quinzel. The look he gave him, of shock and disbelief and fear – it was a look that would haunt Arthur for the rest of his life.

His blood ran cold as he stared back at her, wanted to tell her that he’d just defended himself for once, that he would _never, ever_ hurt her… but his manic fits of laughter didn’t stop, and she finally turned away from him.

He was still laughing as he was thrown into his cell, hitting the hard floor, and the heavy door fell shut behind him to shroud him in silence once more.

Arthur didn’t know how long he’d been lying on the floor with the freezing cold of the ground seeping through his bones, but eventually, his laughter had turned into giggles and then subsided, leaving him gasping for breath. His broken ribs and bruises seemed to burn him up from the inside, choking him in agonizing pain. Arthur wished for that pain to end, but he wasn’t granted the gift of unconsciousness.

When he’d first arrived at Arkham, there had been a doctor to treat his wounds from the crash, but Arthur knew that today, there wouldn’t be a doctor. He was sure it was already night-time when he was finally able to get up, the pain in his chest nearly unbearable.

When he was finally able to stand, he took a step towards the small mirror on the wall, the pattern of cracks obscuring the left half of the dull glass where he’d punched it a few days ago. But as his gaze fell on his reflection and the mirror showed him his hollowed-out, bruised face sprinkled with blood that wasn’t his own… that’s what she’d seen. And he wouldn’t never be able to explain himself. She’d seen a monster, a killer in cold blood and now she would never give him that look of empathy, as if she understood his pain…

_I do exist, and people are starting to notice._

How many times had he wished for people to just see him? And now, for the first time in his life, Arthur wished he’d remained _unseen._ By her.

With a frown, Arthur noticed that his left hand, still curled into a fist, was wet and sticky. He opened his palm to reveal the sharp blade he’d taken with him from his attacker’s corpse. The gleaming metal was now dull with his own dark blood. He’d held it in his fist the whole time, had completely forgotten about it and as a result, it had cut open the skin, deep gushes carving a colourful pattern into the calloused skin of his palm.

Nobody had noticed that he’d been holding that knife. But he wouldn’t have used it, anyway. He’d killed his attacker, but the guards had only done their job in dragging him back to his cell. There had been no need to use the knife.

He sat down on the bunk bed, careless of the blood seeping through his fingers to stain his white attire, the blankets and the floor. With a distracted glance, he hid the knife in the waistband of his white trousers.

He had a weapon now. He’d killed another of his abusers. And he’d never felt that empty in his entire life. That look she’d given him through the glass doors, her beautiful, mesmerizing eyes so full of shock and disgust… It was all Arthur could think about as he drew little patterns of swirls and circles onto the blood in his hand to somehow soothe himself. He had lost her. Could you even lose something you never had in the first place?

***

Harleen barely managed to lock the door of the restrooms behind her before she stumbled onto the cold tiles to hurl up her lunch. She’d seen it. All of it.

The footage from the security cameras was directly broadcasted to a set of little screens in the staff’s break room, and as soon as she’d seen the bulky inmate starting to attack a frail figure that looked a lot like Arthur… Harleen had waited only a millisecond until it dawned on her that the guards on shift would never make a move to help Arthur. So, she’d dashed out of the break room and towards the inmate’s dining hall, heart pounding in her chest, pushing people out of her path to get down there before it was too late – just in time to see how Arthur was slamming that guy’s head into the wall, his skull splitting. The sounds didn’t carry through the heavy walls and the thick safety-glass in the doors, but it didn’t matter. Harleen could imagine the sickening crunch of bones hitting concrete all too well.

The shock had frozen her in place, keeping her in its grip until Arthur was dragged into the hall and past Harleen, heavy laughter racking his frail figure, smears of blood from his shoe soles leaving red traces on the white floor. It was not a laughter of joy, she knew. It was painful, choking and every sound of it sent daggers through Harleen’s own heart while she simultaneously thanked the heavens that it was only his illness – not some sick joy in what he’d done. _You don’t know that_ , a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind, and right then, her gaze met his through the glass.

There was no menace in his eyes, just a pain so deep Harleen nearly felt it herself. So much pain. She felt her features contort in an overwhelming wave of compassion for Arthur, but the splatters of the dead man’s blood sprinkled on his sharp features, the brutality of what she’d just seen, made her gag and she quickly turned away.

 ** _I don’t want to die on the sidewalk. I want people to see me._** That’s what he’d written in his journal – which was still in her apartment, tugged safely away under her pillow. She’d intended to give it back to him.

Now, she was cowering in the bathroom, waiting for her breath to calm and the nausea to subside. Harleen was sure there wasn’t anything left in her stomach to hurl up, but the scene kept replaying in her head over and over again, like a broken video cassette. She felt bile rising again in her throat, but this time, she swallowed it back down. She rose from the floor on still-shaking legs, flushed, and made her way to the sink to drink some water in order to wash away the bitter taste in her mouth.

She’d known the man who had attacked Arthur, and she knew what he was able to do. He’d been one of her patients when she’d started the job at Arkham, fresh out of university and – despite where she’d grown up – completely unprepared for the horrible things that awaited her in the asylum’s thick murals. The man was a rapist, and a child molester, and he’d been one of the patients that loved to brag about their evil deeds. Harleen had hated their sessions, and she’d been glad as he was transferred to a colleague and she wouldn’t have to see his brutal sneer again.

He’d been one of those men that had found joy in their cruelty. What had happened to him today…

 _He deserved it._ He’d have deserved a long, painful death, to at least for a few moments feel the pain he’d inflicted on his helpless victims. For a few seconds, Harleen felt a pang of guilt, but it subsided as soon as she remembered the man’s horrible crimes.

_Good riddance._

However, that didn’t change what Arthur had done. The brutality he seemed able to carry out – even if it was to protect himself. Arthur would’ve died if he hadn’t acted; Harleen knew that. Yet… the way Arthur had lashed out and killed his attacker, as if the sweet, gentle man Harleen had met in the white therapy room had just _vanished_. For the first time since she’d met Arthur, Harleen finally saw the connection between the killer who called himself the Joker and the shy, soft-hearted man that was Arthur.

As if a switch had been turned. Harleen couldn’t help but wonder what was still left of Arthur Fleck. If the Joker, the shield he’d created to protect himself, would slowly eat up that kindness and innocence with every murder he committed to stop the world from hurting him over and over again; and what would be left of Arthur Fleck in the end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there will be more romance in part 5, which I'll post this weekend <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There will be a lot of romance and mutual pining in this chapter and - as I promised - a little bit of happiness for Arthur <3

Harleen went home early, her therapy session with Arthur would’ve been the last of the day and it had been cancelled. She didn’t know how she felt about that, but relief wasn’t part of the flurry of emotions that constricted her throat. Maybe, Arthur needed her right now. But maybe Arthur wasn’t Arthur anymore. She wasn’t so sure what to believe, but on the way home, she’d made up her mind what her next step would be.

She leaned her head against the back of the seat while the subway rattled on through the filthy underground, which wasn’t much gloomier than the streets above. Memories of the incident, the blood on Arthur’s face, flashed through her mind.

Someone had left behind their newspaper on the seat next to her, and the huge black letters of the headline caught her tired gaze.

**WAYNE MURDERER STILL ON THE LOOSE**

Harleen flinched. Yes, Thomas Wayne and his wife had been shot, murdered in cold blood in the night Arthur had killed Murray on live TV. And yes, they’d left behind their little son, Bruce. Of course, it was a tragedy, but… the Waynes weren’t the only ones who’d been killed that night. Police officers, rioters, bystanders. There had been many more victims that night. The dead who wouldn’t be mourned publicly or even mentioned and who’d been forgotten before their corpses even got cold, just because they hadn’t been rich businessmen.

 _I don’t want to die on a sidewalk with people stepping over me_.

When the door to the apartment slammed shut behind her, Harleen was startled by the sight greeting her.

Laughing, Sky pulled the clown-mask off her face.

“Harleen, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Don’t wear this thing in here. It gives me the chills.” Harleen waved at the mask in Sky’s hands flashing her a creepy grin full of sharp plastic fangs. She tried hard to make her voice sound a little less shaky and way more light-hearted than she actually felt, and Sky didn’t ask any questions.

“So, what’s with the mask?”, Harleen asked as she flopped down on the sofa.

“I’m going to the protests in front of the city hall on Saturday.”

Harleen frowned. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Sky just shrugged and ran her hand through her rainbow-hair, as she put the mask on the kitchen counter and began packing her stuff for the night shift.

“I guess so. But who’ll fight for us if we don’t do it ourselves? You see what’s happening out there. That Joker-guy may be a freak and a killer, but he was right with what he said on the Murray-Franklin-Show.”

Harleen didn’t tell her that she’d never seen the episode.

“I just don’t think that violence and setting cars on fire is going to help establish social justice.”

“Words didn’t”, Sky countered, “so maybe it’s just about time to set cars on fire.”

With a tight smile at Harleen, Sky left the apartment.

Good. It was time to finally watch that episode of the Murray Franklin Show. Unlike Sky, Harleen had never liked the show; she didn’t know why. But Sky had loved it, and she usually recorded every single episode. Harleen skimmed through the shelves above the old TV, sifting through the video cassettes Sky had gathered over the years.

There it was.

Harleen knew that it was time to break the spell Arthur had casted on her with his kindness and shy glances, time to get to know this other side slumbering below the surface. Maybe, she’d be afraid of him afterwards, maybe she would stop seeing him as a broken soul and began to see the killer he was. She pushed the cassette into the video recorder and pressed play.

The opening credits with the guest list showed her that it was the wrong episode, so she fast forwarded the sequence, pictures darting over the TV-screen in a flurry of colours – there he was. Not the Joker, but Arthur. Had he been on the Murray-Franklin-Show before?

Brow furrowed in confusion, Harleen pressed the rewind-button.

Murray, his charming smile flashing for the camera as he announced the next clip, _“And here’s a guy who thinks that – if he just keeps laughing – it’ll somehow make him funny.”_

The scene switched and a video clip was played.

It was Arthur. The spotlights were underlining the intense blue of his eyes, tinting his chestnut curls in a red hue and the colour of his vest in a deep bloody velvet. He was laughing. To someone who didn’t know about his condition, Arthur’s laughter would seem real and mad, but Harleen had seen it, and she knew that he was having a really bad laughing fit. She flinched, pity squeezing her heart as she waited for the clip to end while at the same time, she couldn’t bring herself to fast forward. It felt like eternity until the clip ended and was replaced by Murray’s winning smile as he said, _“We have one more. Really love this guy.”_

Another video sequence started. Arthur had stopped laughing in this one, and instead had tried – and failed – to mimic Murray’s stance, his arms spread out wide and a grin on his face. 

_“When I was a little boy and told people I was going to be a comedian, everyone laughed at me. Well, no one’s laughing now.”_ The interior of the comedy club where the clip had been filmed was silent – as if the volume had been muted. A switch back to Murray. _“You can say that again, pal.”_

“Oh Arthur”, Harleen whispered under her breath, her hands over her face in a display of shock about what Murray had done to Arthur. What Murray had done to Arthur was outright cruel, even if he didn’t know about his condition.

She finally pressed the fast-forward button again, to get to the episode she’d really wanted to watch.

***

She’d seen it. The whole episode from the night of Arthur’s downfall and the Joker’s rise. And while it had been horrible to watch, it had done the exact opposite of what Harleen thought it would do as she’d pressed play.

The look in his eyes as he’d opened his journal while Murray made fun of him; the split second when Arthur’s painted face had gone completely still as if a light inside him had been snuffed out… Harleen knew which part he’d read in his journal. **_I hope my death makes more cents than my life_**. Nobody had noticed that look crossing Arthur’s face. **_I want people to see me._** Was that the moment Arthur had decided to end Murray’s life, instead of his own?

Instead of quenching her compassion for Arthur and the feelings she couldn’t yet name – like she’d thought, _hoped_ it would – the episode had intensified them like gasoline poured into a fire. It had reassured her that Arthur wasn’t crazy or psychopathic or evil. He was human, and he’d endured so much cruelty it was a miracle it had taken him so long to finally choose fight over flight. The Joker, Arthur, whatever you’d call him, wasn’t a killer. He was a victim.

***

Harleen hadn’t gotten much sleep that night but taking in Arthur’s defeated form in the white therapy room the day after the incident showed her that he hadn’t, either.

The shadows under his ocean eyes were even darker, his chestnut hair fell into his face in unruly waves and he looked so impossibly thin and frail in the wide, white prisoner’s garb.

He didn’t look at her as she entered the room, just hunched a little more into his seat. Some of his curls shifted, revealing a bruise on his jaw where his abuser had hit him. Harleen felt a wave of anger rushing through her at the thought of it.

She sat down and for a few moments, it was like good old times: her staring at him, him staring at anything but her. Harleen cleared her throat.

“Arthur, I can’t force you talk to me. But if you don’t, I won’t be able to help you.”, Harleen began, her voice sounded stronger than she was feeling. “Let me help you. _Please_.”

***

“ _Please_.”

The last word had been barely more than a whisper, the softness of it causing his heart to stumble in his chest, and Arthur finally raised his head to lock his gaze with hers. Her beautiful eyes were bloodshot. Because of him? Because he had unsettled her? His hands on the metal table curled into fists at the thought that he could have caused the distress, so much so that his knuckles were white.

“Aren’t you scared of me?” His voice was trembling, so much did he fear her answer. _Of course she is_ , he scolded himself.

“Do I need to be scared of you?”

His eyes widened in shock at her question and he shook his head, his curls bouncing around his head.

“No”, he said vehemently, a little louder than necessary but he needed her to understand. “I would never hurt you.” She had to believe him. She had to. “I’m sorry you –“, his voice broke and he took a deep breath to steady himself. “I’m sorry you had to see it.” They both new what he was talking about.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you, Arthur. I really am.”

Again, his eyes widened in shock. He desperately wanted to believe her, but his own mind didn’t let him. _She’s manipulating you_ , it whispered to him in Penny Fleck’s voice. _She doesn’t care for you, she’s just doing her job, Happy. Making you talk is part of the job_. Nobody had ever been nice, or understanding, or gentle with him; so why should the beautiful therapist in front of him be? _You don’t deserve her kind words anyway_.

“What do you want to know?”, he mumbled, careful to keep his voice void of any emotions once again.

“Whatever you’re willing to tell me.”

A small, joyless huff escaped him.

“How much _do_ you already know?”, he asked, fearing her judgement that would surely come with her reply.

“You murdered five people and caused a city-wide riot”, she summarized in a careful tone. Arthur couldn’t discern any judgement. _Yet_.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t murder these three guys on the subway because they ‘couldn’t carry a tune to save their lives’,” she quoted. Again, it wasn’t a question, just a statement. A guess.

“No, I didn’t.”

“That’s what you told Murray.”

“I lied. It didn’t matter anyway; nothing I could’ve said would have changed anything.” The hurt had crept back into his voice as the memories of this night flooded his mind, threatening to sweep him away and drown him. 

***

Arthur had huddled in on himself again, looking lost and frail in the white garb. His chocolate hair shifted, some strands fell into his face, obscuring his features. He was back in his own thoughts.

“Then why did you kill them?”

He locked his gaze with hers, the intensity in his blue eyes pinning her in place.

“They were awful.”

A short pause. Harleen could see the memories of that night flitting through his mind, an she gave him the time he needed to put them into words.

“They harassed a young woman in the subway. I wanted to say something and help her. But I didn’t know how, and that made me feel bad, and that triggered a laughing fit. So, they turned their attention to me. You can imagine the rest.”

She could. Her chest tightened.

“I had a gun, and I used it. The first two were down immediately. The third… not. I chased him, and then I shot him again, and again. They were awful, and they deserved it because if I hadn’t had the gun, they wouldn’t have stopped kicking me. I thought I would feel bad for what I’d done, but I didn’t. I made it to the headlines, and people saw me. I felt pretty _good_.”

Chills crept up Harleen’s spine at his words.

“Killing them made you feel good?”, she carefully inquired.

“No. But people seeing it. Knowing they won’t ever harm anyone again.”

Now, it was her part to tell Arthur that it was bad what he’d done, that murder wasn’t a path to justice, all the therapy-things she’d learned to tell her patients. She didn’t – because it would have been a lie. Harleen couldn’t help but agree with Arthur. Agree with him that three young men – no matter how awful they’d been – had deserved to die. What did that say about herself? That didn’t explain the other murders, though.

“What about your co-worker at Haha’s, then? Did he attack you?”

It sounded more accusatory than Harleen had intended and she flinched as Arthur’s face contorted to a frown.

“Do you want to know where I got that gun? Randall gave it to me, after I was beaten up by some kids in the streets. He told me it was to defend myself. I didn’t want to take it, but I did to make him shut up.”

His gaze was pleading at his next words. “I took the gun, but I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

Harleen believed him. Something in his voice, his eyes that were begging for her to believe him, told her that it was the truth. She could only nod at him. Unshed tears glinted in his eyes, but she couldn’t discern if it was of relief or guilt.

“Randall didn’t give me the gun to defend myself. He told our boss that I had a weapon when we at Haha’s weren’t allowed to have one. It fell out of my trousers when I was performing at a children’s hospital. I was fired. It was my own fault, I know that.”

“That’s why you killed Randall?”

Arthur shrugged. “He bullied me. Me, and a few others. Always laughing at me for my condition, the way I look…”

“As well as Murray Franklin did”, Harleen finished the sentence that hung between them.

“You saw the episode”, Arthur asked, his voice laced with insecurity.

“I did”, she admitted. “Last night. And you killing Murray wasn’t my concern.”

Arthur gave her a confused look. There were so many emotions in his eyes, mirroring her own.

“Arthur,” her voice broke a little, “I’ve read your journal.”

The world seemed to stop. She’d read his journal. His darkest and deepest thoughts, on display in the worn-out notebook. His old therapist had read it too – skimmed through the pages, at least – but that woman had never paid attention to him. Dr. Quinzel, on the other hand, did. And the thought that she’d seen everything he’d entrusted to his journal…

“I found it in the archives. I’m sorry I pried on you.”

Harleen pulled the journal she’d brought with her out of the patient folder beside her, placing it in front of him. Arthur didn’t react. He didn’t look mad that she’d done it, just _horrified_ as he glanced at the worn notebook in the middle of the table, his bandaged hand tracing the outline of his patient number on the file. Harleen felt tears pricking in her eyes.

“Please don’t cry”, Arthur whispered. “I don’t want to make you cry.”

“Even if I read your journal? Aren’t you mad at me?”

He vehemently shook his head, curls bouncing.

“Are you?” he countered. It was a careful question, as if he feared what her answer might be.

“Arthur, why should I be mad?”

He shrugged.

“I killed Murray and Randall and the three jerks in the subway. Because they were awful to me”, he began, “All my life, people made fun of me when all I ever did was try to be kind and happy for them.”

A stray tear rolled down his cheek and Harleen had to resist the urge to gently swipe it away. What was happening with her?

“I tried so hard to be good. To bring people joy and happiness. But they wouldn’t stop beating me and making fun of me no matter what I did. I wanted them to stop making fun of me. Now, they can’t laugh at me anymore. No one is laughing at me anymore.” 

The last sentence reminded her of his joke at the comedy club – the one Murray Franklin had used to make fun of Arthur on TV, for the whole city to join him.

“Arthur…” her voice broke at the memory of how sad and lost Arthur’s face had been behind the Joker’s mask as he’d opened the journal on the show. “Did you plan to kill yourself in the Murray-Franklin-Show?”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “I should have gone through with it.”

Hearing that her guess had been right, and Arthur had planned to kill himself pained her so much that she could practically feel the physical ache of her heart breaking for him.

***

Arthur couldn’t look at her. It was too much. Everything was too much. This time, the fit came without a warning, like a dam breaking, unleashing the laughter upon him like a wave that pulled him under to drown him.

 _No no no no no. Not now. Please not now_. He curled his fist tighter, his nails scratching painfully at the deep cuts in his palm that the stolen knife had left there. Sometimes, pain helped him focus and made the laughter go away. This time, even pain wasn’t strong enough.

His vision blurred as tears of agony and shame shot into his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. Maybe, if he just let the laughter squeeze the air out of his lungs, he’d finally die. _I should have died a long time ago_. Chained to a radiator. Beaten up at school on every possible opportunity. Beaten up countless times in the streets and alleys of the city. On the filthy floor in the subway car as the three guys kicked at him relentlessly. In the last episode of the Murray Franklin Show, as he’d planned to. The thoughts stabbed him, while the laughter racked through his broken body. This time, it was so strong that he couldn’t even tell Dr. Quinzel how sorry he was for making her uncomfortable, making her see how broken he was.

***

_Don’t touch them._

_Don’t engage._

_DON’T._

_Fuck the rules_ , Harleen thought. And then she did what she’d wanted to do all along since the first time his condition had taken control over him. Harleen reached out and placed her hand on his, still curled into fists so tight it must hurt him.

His head jerked up, a look of _something_ crossing his features that were contorted in pain and the unyielding laughter his body forced upon him.

“It’s okay, Arthur. No one is going to judge you in here, I promise”, she told him, her hand gently resting on his. It was wrong, but the touch sent shivers through her spine.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry, Arthur.” She didn’t only say the words to calm him, but because they were true. She placed a second hand over his, gently prying his fists open to stop him from hurting himself while she continued whispering soothing words. Harleen wished she could protect him from his own tortured mind, so much that she felt her heart aching.

And finally, his laughter subsided, pained guffaws turning into chuckles until his body stopped shaking.

Her hands were still placed atop his on the cold table and he didn’t make a move to pull away. Arthur hadn’t looked at her again. Harleen wished he had. Before she could say something, her gaze fell on the red splatter that painted the metal table he was cuffed to. With a gasp, she jerked her hands away.

At her sudden movement, hurt flashed in Arthur’s eyes, followed by guilt. Ashamed, he pulled his own hands further away from hers, the chains that tied him to the table tinkling like little bells with his movements.

“I- I’m sorry”, he stammered, even if it was _her_ who’d taken _his_ hand, his gaze hefted firmly on the ground in remorse, making her heart squeeze. It was a mystery how Arthur, despite having a body count, still seemed so pure at heart.

“Arthur, there’s blood on your hands”, she stammered; desperate to tell him the reason for rejecting the touch all of a sudden.

“I know that. I know what I’ve done”, he replied quietly, and it sounded so unbelievably tired.

“No, literally! You’re bleeding.”

Finally, it clicked, and he furrowed his brow as he stared down at his bloodied fingers. Slowly, he turned his hands so that he could examine his palms. Multiple deep gashes covered the skin of his palm, splattering blotches of blood onto the metallic surface of the table that were glinting like little rubies in the artificial lights.

“Oh. Yeah. That’s from yesterday”, he said matter-of-factly, as if he’d completely forgotten about the injuries in his palm. As if he’d so gotten used to pain that he’d habituated to its presence.

“How… didn’t they bring you to the doctor?”

 _And why do these cuts look as if they’d been inflicted by a blade?_ She decided that it was a question for another time.

He didn’t answer, and he didn’t have to. Of course, they had brought him to see a doctor. Because they didn’t care; nobody in this godforsaken city ever cared.

“I’ll fetch something to patch you up.”

She hurried out of the room, leaving him alone and confused.

***

Arthur didn’t know what to do; the whole situation left him with a huge question mark in his mind. What did normal people do in a situation like this? Would she have continued to hold his hand if he hadn’t bled all over the table? What the fuck was wrong with him? He had the strong urge to slam his head against the tabletop, but when she came back – if she came back – she probably would be scared and he would have the blood all over his face and then he’d look like the person he was inside; stained with blood and darkness. But she had seen that, hadn’t she? And apparently, she wasn’t scared of him.

He looked at the sticky blood covering his fingertips, the same colour as the face paint he’d used as a party clown. It seemed like another life. It _had been_ in another life. Slowly, he brought the fingertips of his uninjured hand to the deep cuts in his palm, dipping into the blood that slowly seeped out and stained the table. _Put on a happy face_.

Slowly, Arthur brought his fingers down the table to draw a smiley-face onto the cool metal while he chuckled to himself. How easy it was to put on your happy face when someone painted it that way. He could’ve painted a frown as well, but then it wouldn’t have been a funny smiley, but his own face. Arthur wished he could have his face paint, so that he could cover up the sight of him, to make it easier for _her_ to look at him, just like the inmate had told him the day before; the man whose blood Arthur had scattered all over the wall. 

His train of thought stopped when she returned to him, carrying a small first-aid-kit. It could’ve been only a few minutes later.

Without a moment of hesitation, she took the chair from its place opposite the table and placed it right beside him with a slight screech, faster than Arthur could process what she was planning to do.

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. She sat down, right _next to him_ , so near that he could smell the flowery scent of her hair, her perfume. Well, he didn’t know if she even used perfume. She was perfect, so maybe she just smelled of roses on her own. Which called into his mind that _he_ was definitely not smelling of roses. Arkham wasn’t a place where you were granted a shower every day. He started to panic. She was near him, and he probably smelled of sweat and cigarettes and blood and _what if he started laughing again_ –

“Will you let me tend to those cuts?” Her voice beside him catapulted him out of his racing thoughts. “They need to be cleaned and bandaged, so they won’t become inflamed.”

Arthur caught her gaze for a few heartbeats and gave her a weak nod, unable to speak. He tried to find any trace of disgust in her eyes at the sight of the blood splattered over his hands and the table, or at _him_ , but they just radiated a warmth that made his knees shaky and sent his heart soaring like a bird.

“You don’t have to do that”, Arthur managed to choke out, afraid that he could somehow make her uncomfortable; more unease than he felt like he was already inflicting upon her.

“I know”, she just answered and took a small spray bottle out of the kit.

He felt like he might faint right then and there as she carefully lifted his hand, her touch again feather-light on his skin as she tried not to hurt him in the process and Arthur realized that he’d never been touched gently before. He felt dizziness clouding his mind and it took him a few seconds that he was holding his breath.

While she concentrated on cleaning out the cuts, the burning sensation of the disinfectant was numbed by the rush of excitement at being so close to her. The closest he’d ever get. With a shy glance, he took in her beautiful face; her brows furrowed in concentration and her long, dark lashes drawing shadows on her cheeks. She bit her lip in concentration as she worked and Arthur felt his breath getting caught in his throat at how stunning she was, the kindness radiating off her like warmth of a summer’s day. He knew it was creepy to stare at her, but she didn’t notice, and he just couldn’t help it.

“Arthur?”

He jolted out of his thoughts and realized that she must’ve said something to him, which he hadn’t heard because he’d been so caught up in the moment.

He looked down at his injured hand that was now neatly dressed in white bandages.

“Thank you”, he choked, because that was all he could muster at the moment.

She nodded but didn’t move her chair to sit down opposite him, as Arthur thought she would. She just kept sitting beside him, only a few feet apart. The scent of roses wrapped around him like a blanket, warming him in a way a blanket never could. 

“I’m glad you didn’t do it, Arthur. If shooting Murray was the price for your decision to stay alive, I’m glad you paid it. This city would’ve lost something if you’d gone through with your plan.”

He was too stunned by her words to reply. Did she mean it, or was she just doing her job? Arthur wanted so desperately to believe that she’d been sincere, but habit and self-hatred were sowing doubt in his heart. Nevertheless, she was kind, and he hadn’t met kindness often.

***

“She took my hand.” He felt himself smiling. A real, genuine, heartfelt smile. And it hadn’t happened in his imagination, but _for real_. Her gentle touch had sent sparks of electricity through his whole body, making him wonder if he was having a heart attack, and her voice had done what he’d never managed to achieve himself: she’d chased away the darkness in his mind, like sunrays cutting through a cover of rainclouds. He wanted to do it again. He wanted to take her hand so badly it ached in his chest, and he would never let go. He closed his eyes to remember the feeling of her feathery touch on his hands, determined to never let the memory fade because he didn’t have to be a fortune teller to know it would likely never happen again.

However, no positive thought was able to last long in his tortured mind. The clouds came back, and with them, the darkness.

_Why? Why would someone want to touch you?_

She wanted to soothe me.

_She’d wanted to make the laughter stop, because it had disturbed and disgusted her._

Maybe she did it to help me calm down, he argued with his own mind.

 _Out of pity_.

Of course it had been out of pity. The thought filled him with despise for himself and he came to another, mortifying conclusion: what if she hadn’t _wanted_ to touch his hand but had done it anyway because she’d felt obliged to do so? What if she’d been disgusted by holding his hand?

_She read your journal. How can she not be disgusted by you, Happy? You know what’s between these pages._

Oh god. The pictures of … women. There were only a few, but they were there, and that meant she must’ve seen them. It felt as if his legs would give in any second, so Arthur let himself sink to the floor, his face buried in his hands at the realization. He’d forgotten about those pictures. There was no way she was not repelled by the images.

He attempted to close his eyes and smash his head into the concrete wall of his cell; the pain would probably be strong enough to keep the oncoming laughing fit at bay; at least for a little while longer. Before he could act on the thought, his gaze fell towards the bunkbed with his journal on top of it. There was one thing he had to do first. He took the worn notebook and began to rip out the pages with pictures of women. They weren’t many. He scrunched them up into a ball and threw it into the furthest corner of his tiny cell to never look at them again. 

His gaze locked on the notebook, and Arthur finally noticed the pen wedged into the ring-binder spine of the notebook. Dr. Quinzel must have placed it there for him. It dawned on him that yes, she’d read his journal; but she’s also taken his hand to calm him during his laughing fit and told him that she was glad he hadn’t taken his own life.

A smile flitted across his face. Because there seemed to be someone who cared for him – maybe not the way he wished, the way he cared for her – but if he was all the same to her, she wouldn’t have given him the journal back or taken his hand.

As he reopened the journal on the next free page to write down what had happened today – though there was no need to, it had engraved itself in his memories – he saw that the page wasn’t empty. In the middle, letters were written in a loopy handwriting that he didn’t know.

**_I see you, Arthur. I’m sure I would have noticed you if I’d met you in the streets instead – Harleen_ **

Arthur closed his eyes and hugged the journal tightly to his chest; right over his heart that raced so loud that he was sure even the guards on the other side of the heavy door could hear it.

“Harleen”, he whispered to himself, the name felt like a spell on his lips.

Her words had chased away the dark clouds once more. Despite everything that had happened today, Arthur felt warmth blooming in his chest, spreading through his whole body. It took him a few seconds to discern what it was that he was feeling: happiness. For the first time in his entire life, he felt a spark of happiness, and the reason was her.


	6. Chapter 6

The evening had come, her co-workers had went home, and Harleen still sat in the small room she called her office – before she’d started the job at Arkham, it had been a broom closet, but you had to take what you got – and stared at the blank wall. There were so many thoughts rushing through her mind, so much that had happened.

Arthur had opened up to her, and the amount of trust he’d put into her to be so vulnerable in front of her made her dizzy. What he’d told her was as horrible as she’d expected, including the plan to kill himself on TV. She was glad she’d taken his hand. With a pang of guilt, she admitted to herself that she hadn’t just done it to soothe him, but because she’d _wanted_ to. She was horrible. The poor man had suffered another fit his condition inflicted upon him on a daily basis and she’d used it as an opportunity to paw him. What was wrong with her? What was he doing to her?

When she closed her eyes, she could still see his intense blue stare in her mind, hear the soft words he’d whispered that had done something to her cardiovascular system.

 _Please don’t cry_.

With a loud sigh, she sifted through the stack of patient records that had awaited her on her desk when she returned from the therapy session with Arthur. One of her co-workers, Dr. Stevens, had left it there; she’d have known even without the sticky-note sporting a winking smiley. The same co-worker who always passed his paperwork on to her. Harleen did it because then she wouldn’t have to see him. Dr. Stevens tried to hit on her multiple times and despite the fact that he was married, always leaving her with an uneasy feeling in her stomach. He was the embodiment of the word ‘smarmy’.

She worked through the stack on autopilot, not really noticing what she wrote down, because her mind was still preoccupied with the events in the white room earlier. It had been nice to hold his hand, yes. But it had been nice because Arthur was a nice person. That’s why people hugged their friends and family, right? Arthur was special, and she liked him because he was so different from the rest of the people in Gotham; from the first day on he’d been nothing but sympathetic and kind and it was something so rare that she hadn’t expected to meet it in Arkham, of all places.

The little TV in the corner of her desk – she’d placed it there to prevent her from falling asleep when she worked in the night shift, and hold the loneliness at bay when it overwhelmed her – showed her the news of the day. More riots, more fires, more people hurt on both sides; the police and the rioters. The deaths of the Wayne family did nothing to quench the fire Arthur had kindled with his actions. However, the only ones that burned were the rioters and the policemen fighting in the streets, not the rich who’d let social injustice come so far that the whole city had been like a can of gasoline, ready to burst into flames at the slightest spark. The Joker had ignited that spark. She couldn’t help but smile.

***

The day after, something had changed between them. The walls Arthur had erected around himself to shut out the cruelty of the world were still there, but they’d began sporting cracks, allowing Harleen to catch some glimpses at the man Arthur Fleck really was. Maybe one day, Harleen would be able to tear them down to free Arthur of the prison in his mind, the one he’d been locked up in for a long time before he was brought to Arkham. 

In today’s session, they wouldn’t talk about Arthur’s past, she’d decided. He’d suffered so much the day before, had allowed himself to be so vulnerable around her… the poor man deserved a break.

When he was seated and handcuffed to the table, he gave her a short, uncertain glance, before he took a shaky breath and broke the silence.

“Thank you for – for the journal”, he stammered, a slight blush creeping up his cheeks. Harleen felt warmth surge through her. He’d read her note, she was sure.

His shyness and insecurity had remained as well as his tightness, but something else had changed overnight, even if Harleen couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. Arthur was holding her gaze more often and she frequently caught herself thinking about how beautiful his eyes were. Also, she couldn’t get that moment out of her head when she’d taken his hand the day before, and she didn’t know what it meant.

His eyes weren’t bloodshot anymore and the haunted look in their blue depths seemed a little less prominent today.

“You look better”, she said before she could stop herself.

“You too”, he answered quickly before realization dawned on him and the blush deepened into crimson. “I – I mean you looked beautiful yesterday, but tired, and now you don’t look tired anymore…” He drifted off, giggles escaping his throat that announced his next laughing fit, giving away how nervous he was.

Harleen gave him a small smile, and his eyes widened in response.

“Thank you”, she said. And she meant it. Now, she found herself flustered as well. 

“Do you know what’s happening right now in Gotham?”, Harleen eventually asked to stop the awkward silence that had settled between them. She was pretty sure he had no clue about what was going on outside these murals, his only chance at hearing the news being eavesdropping on the guards’ chats.

He shook his head, still sporting that look of uncertainty as if he didn’t know how to act after what had happened the day before. Harleen took out the newspaper she’d taken with her this morning and placed it atop the table so that Arthur could read the front page, which displayed a black-and-white-photo of him, dressed as the Joker while he stood atop the hood of what looked like the remains of a police car; his arms were stretched out wide. A bizarre imitation of Murray Franklin’s trademark-stance that Arthur had copied before, in the comedy club. Even in black and white, the fires and chaos all around seemed colourful and vivid.

 **THE KILLER WHO CALLS HIMSELF JOKER – GOTHAM’S NEW KING OF CRIME?** , the headline blared out, as sensation-seeking as ever.

“I’m not a killer”, Arthur whispered with hurt flashing in his eyes.

“No, you’re not”, Harleen replied softly, and his head shot up to meet her gaze before she went on, “A killer plans his deeds, and he commits them for the sake of killing. That’s why you’re not a killer, Arthur. I always wonder why you didn’t tell Murray Franklin how those jerks in the subway attacked you.”

“Because it wouldn’t have changed anything. People make up their minds about you, and nothing you say will ever change it. Thanks to Murray, I was a freak before I even entered the stage.”

He was right, Harleen knew. That’s how things worked. She gestured toward the newspaper between them. “The riots haven’t ceased”, she explained, “There are still ongoing protests – some of them without violence, but in most of them, people get hurt. Gotham is burning. That’s a pretty neat achievement for someone who never wanted to start a movement in the first place.”

Arthur took a deep drag of the cigarette he was holding, the smoke curling around him and nearly obscuring the little smile that flashed across his face for a brief second as he looked at the photo of him in the newspaper. Was he smiling because people finally saw him?

Harleen felt a strange emotion in her chest and it took her a moment to discern what it was – hurt. _She_ saw him. She’d told him so in her note and somehow, she wanted that to be enough for him _. It doesn’t matter anyway, because he is just another patient,_ she scolded herself.

“Do you think it’s funny?”, Harleen finally asked, but her voice didn’t hold any accusations, just curiosity.

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t know. I just want people to stop being rude to others.”

“So, you really don’t believe in any of this?”

Again, a shrug. “That’s what I said to Murray. I’m not political. But the chaos and fire and riots in the streets… it was beautiful.” He locked his blue eyes with hers, his gaze holding an intensity that sent her heart stumbling in her chest. “Chaos is beautiful because that’s what happens if everybody is free to be themselves.”

“Like you were that night?”

“Yeah.” He took another drag of the cigarette he was holding before he continued, “I was free to be myself that night. I didn’t need to hide that I’m different and weird and never fit in. Chaos is that: accepting how things are.”

“Embracing yourself instead of showing others what they want to see”, Harleen finished for him. Arthur nodded fervently.

“I don’t want to be king of anything”, he told her with a stern look on his face, “I don’t like doing crimes. I just didn’t want to be stepped over all the time. But if I was king of something, I’d rather like to be the king of chaos.”

“Maybe I should try your philosophy for myself”, Harleen mused before she could stop herself from saying it out loud.

Arthur gave her a very sincere glance, before he asked, “Why?”

Harleen knew she should bring the focus of their conversation back on Arthur, but it was so rare that someone showed real interest in her – at least not with the genuineness that Arthur displayed.

“I feel like…maybe not an outsider. But rather a spectator, if that makes any sense. My foster-mum always told me to smile, because that’s the easiest way if you’re a girl. Women who speak their mind aren’t well-liked. So, that’s what I do. I smile, and swallow down what I really want to say, to make life easier. Just like you did, Arthur.”

“I smiled my whole life, always tried to please people. It doesn’t work. All they do is laugh at you. So, if you don’t want to smile anymore if someone is rude to you, you should give them a piece of your mind, instead. Maybe I would’ve been free if I’d learned to accept how I am instead of being ashamed for it.”

“Did it last? That feeling of that night when you embraced who you are?”, Harleen wanted to know.

The sadness returned to his eyes. “No.”

***

When the guards had unlocked Arthur’s handcuffs from where they were always bound to the table and lead him away, Harleen took the folder with the session’s protocols and made her way towards the heavy door when something in the corner of her eye caught her attention and she paused, her free hand gripping the door handle.

She turned and stepped toward the table. Atop the cold steel lay a single origami-flower, intricately folded out of ruled paper. Harleen carefully took the flower in her hands to admire it, her glance catching on a familiar spindly, black handwriting on one of the paper-petals.

**_I wish I could give you a ~~reel~~ real flower_ **

The gesture was so pure and sweet that she felt her heart burst and her face light up in a beaming smile. She traced the outline of the petals, blinking back a tear of emotion. How many hours had it taken Arthur to create it? Cautiously, to avoid crumpling the meticulously folded petals, she carried the flower with her in her hands, too afraid to put it inside her bag and accidentally crush it.

When she she’d finally made it home that day, the first thing Harleen did was go into her small bedroom to store Arthur’s flower somewhere safe, but paused as she saw what lay on her bed, draped atop the crisp white covers. It was one of the creepy plastic clown-masks the rioters wore in honour of the Joker, staring up at her. The fangs were over-dramatic, turning its bright happy smile into an evil sneer. There was a sticky note attached to the mask, with Sky’s flowing handwriting on it.

 ** _In case you ever want to join the cause_** , it read, a winking smiley painted beneath. Sky wouldn’t stop trying to convince her, she knew. What would her roommate say if she knew that Harleen saw the Joker every day?

Harleen smiled. It was so distinctly _Arthur_ , to accidentally start a political movement to the extent in which it really threatened to burn down a whole city, without even believing in it. But since when did she know what was distinctly Arthur? They knew each other for a few weeks and had only recently stopped talking. Nevertheless, she just knew, somehow.

Harleen stored the clown-mask inside the box with Arthur’s belongings she’d taken from the archive and since then had stored inside her closet, then closed the door. Maybe someday, she would join the rioters. Now was not that day.

Still smiling, she finally placed Arthur’s paper-flower on her nightstand, so she could see it every time she went to sleep and every time she woke up. 

***

“Thank you”, Harleen said first thing as she entered the white room the next day, “For the flower. It’s beautiful.”

Arthur’s heart skipped a few beats as she smiled at him. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. It seemed to light up the whole room and sent a warmth through him that made him giddy and flustered.

“So, you know we eventually have to talk about your childhood”, Harleen told him the next day, when they were back in the white room.

Arthur shook his head vehemently, his chocolate curls bouncing around him like a dark halo.

“It’s not that interesting”, he told her, but it didn’t sound convincing even to himself. But Arthur knew that reopening this box he’d so neatly stored into the back of his mind – and sworn to himself to never open again – would be more than he could bear. It would send him right back into the dark abyss he was just escaping from.

The door sprang open, revealing an elderly man in a suit.

“Hey there”, he gave Harleen a leering grin. Arthur saw how she tensed, and felt himself immediately dislike the intruder, the glance the man had given Harleen as if she was a piece of meat.

“There have been a few changes in the work schedule. Plus, I left a new stack of paperwork on your desk, and I need you to get it done by tonight, doll.”

With a short sneer in Arthur’s direction, the man turned to leave the room again, but Harleen’s reply was fast and sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

“Then I suggest you do your paperwork and hurry, Dr. Stevens”, she replied coolly, but Arthur was a great observer and her tightened stance gave away her unease.

“Beg your pardon?”

The man – Dr. Stevens – halted, his hand resting atop the handle of the security door as he turned towards Harleen who held his gaze. Whatever was happening right now, Arthur had the distinct feeling it was happening for the first time.

“I advised you to hurry up with your paperwork if it’s due tonight”, Harleen countered with a little smile that didn’t reach her eyes, which were glittering determinedly, “Because I’m neither your doll, nor your secretary.”

Dr. Stevens looked dumbfounded, and the tension in the room felt like the air before a thunderstorm. Arthur couldn’t suppress a string of giggles, a mix of his condition and real laughter at the man’s expression. The doctor muttered something under his breath and left, the door slamming shut behind him a little heavier than necessary. Arthur felt a strange sense of pride flood through him to have witnessed how Harleen had spoken her mind, just as they’d talked about the other day. However, he didn’t know how to address the matter, and his thoughts were interrupted.

“My co-workers are lovely, as you can see”, Harleen commented with a dry tone that sounded almost comical, but Arthur didn’t know if she’d meant it to be comical so he suppressed the urge to give her a smile.

“I’m not good with social situations”, he murmured instead.

“He neither”, Harleen quipped and this time, Arthur could feel the sadness lurking beneath her words.

“People often mistake kindness for stupidity”, Arthur mused, “When my co-workers made fun of me, I faked a laughing fit, sometimes. Then I left the room to calm down. But your reaction just now was very brave, so I think you don’t need my advice.”

He was unsure if she even wanted to hear his opinion on the matter. But something was nagging at him. The leering grin Dr. Stevens had given Harleen had filled Arthur with nausea, because he’d often seen that look on men’s faces in the subway or on the bus, and he knew what it meant.

Arthur was worried about her. He knew it was none of his business and that he had no right to worry, but that didn’t soothe the feeling. He shifted a little in his seat, the cigarette he held between the fingers of his uninjured hand forgotten, as he felt something cold tingling on the skin above his hip. The knife he’d stolen from his attacker and had managed to successfully hide from the guards ever since. It was safely tucked into the waistband of his too-large prisoner’s garb, hidden from the watchful eyes of the guards until the day he’d need it again. Arthur had completely forgotten about it for a moment.

Slowly to avoid scaring Harleen – was he allowed to call her Harleen now, because she’d signed her message in his journal with it? – he moved to take the knife out and place it on the table, the chains on his handcuffs tinkling happily in the process.

As she saw the glinting knife in Arthur’s hands, a look of fear crossed her beautiful features. Guilt surged through him, and then the utter sadness of what that look in her eyes indicated.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t want to scare you.”

A few giggles hiccupped through his throat, announcing the incoming fit of laughter his emotions were triggering and he quickly pressed a hand over his mouth to somehow stop it while pain jolted through his healing ribs at the jerky movement. Harleen’s eyes were glued to the knife and Arthur grabbed the blade so that its hilt was pointed in her direction, in hopes it would show her that he didn’t have any malicious intentions. She hadn’t moved away from the table, but her whole stance was tense as if she was ready to jump and run any moment.

He locked his gaze with hers and took a deep breath until the giggles stopped and the fit was kept at bay – for now.

“I’m sorry”, he repeated. “I would never hurt you. I just wanted you to take the knife for protection.”

“Where did you get that?” She still sounded distressed.

“Umm.” He didn’t really want to recall that day, but he also didn’t want to lie. “I took it from the inmate who attacked me. He wanted to use it on me, and then I took it in case anyone would try to kill me again.”

“Arthur…”

“Would you take it? Please take it. Maybe you’ll need it one day.”

“To do _what_?”

Arthur shrugged. They both knew he hadn’t given her his knife as a kitchen tool.

Harleen seemed to relax again, leaning slightly forward as she pointed at the knife.

“So, you want me to take the only thing that could protect you in here?”

Arthur nodded happily.

“That’s crazy”, she breathed out.

“Yeah.”

“It’s crazy you even _had_ that knife.”

“Yeah.”

“I shouldn’t take it. And I certainly shouldn’t give it back to you.” Was she arguing with him or with herself?

“You really shouldn’t”, he agreed with a triumphant little smile. “Which means you have to take it now.”

“Arthur, you’re killing me”, she sighed.

“No!”, he cried out in shock until it dawned on him that she’d used it as a phrase and not meant it literally, then sunk back into his chair with an embarrassed warmth in his face. He was such a freak.

“I’m sorry, that was not a great choice of words”, she told him, her eyes searching his, as if she was unsure of what to say next. Then, she placed a hand over the knife and slowly slid it back towards him.

“Keep it, Arthur. Keep it and hide it. You need it more than I do, and I can get myself a knife easily.”

Arthur’s heart was doing little backflips in his chest – she didn’t want him to get hurt and she trusted him he wouldn’t use the knife! – as he carefully placed his hands, the injured one she’d bandaged and the good one, on hers that were still holding the glinting blade and gently pushed it towards her. The leering grin of her co-worker flashed through his mind again.

“Keep it”, he insisted quietly, his eyes firmly fixed on hers, “Please.”

***

Arthur was pacing in his cell, nervousness rendering him unable to sit still. Had it been okay to leave the flower for her to find? Had he gone too far? He’d never had any social experience and even less experience when it came to women. He wasn’t sure how to proceed, so he’d opted for just doing what his gut told him to.

He’d know the next day. Arthur was sure his concerns about Harleen’s reactions would keep him awake that night. It was strange: he was well used to insomnia, but the reason had always been his own thoughts telling him he was worthless, listing all his failures and every single bad thing that had happened to him. Both lists were rather long. Something had changed.

Now, when Arthur lay awake at night or jolted out of a particularly vile nightmare; the thoughts keeping him awake were about her. The way she’d smiled at him and how it had made her eyes sparkle, how she’d taken his hand, how she seemed to never judge him or be repulsed by him. Seeping through those happy thoughts were always those who told him he would never be good enough for her, that he’d never deserve her kindness and that she’d finally see how despicable and undeserving of love he was when love was all he’d ever wanted. These thoughts still came to his mind in Penny Fleck’s voice. But even these dark thoughts didn’t stand a chance against the memories of Harleen during their sessions in the white room, which made the demons in his mind dissipate like snow in the sun.

A scraping sound, and his dinner tray was pushed through the slot in his cell door. He smiled as he saw the two small painkillers placed atop it. His ribs were healing; soon he wouldn’t need the painkillers any longer.

 ** _I wish the hurt inside would heal as easily as my bones_** , he’d written in his journal the day before. He didn’t think the wounds in his soul would ever heal – they were too many, and too deep. But maybe, it was okay that he was broken. As long as he would see Harleen every day in the white room, he could endure nearly everything.

She’d smiled because of something he’d done; and she’d liked the flower. No one could see it, but he smiled, a real smile that reached his eyes and lit up his whole face in pure joy. He’d been the reason for her to smile, and it made him incredibly happy and giddy and nervous at the same time.

He grabbed the pen and opened a new page in his journal. **_Mother always told me to bring joy and hapines into the world_** , he wrote down. **_But I think I rather want to bring joy and hapines to someone who means the world to me._**

***

Harleen’s heart was still thundering in her chest as the guards brought Arthur back into his solitary cell, leaving her alone in the white room. She had taken the knife, as Arthur had pleaded with her, and while she knew she wouldn’t need to use it, it held a completely new significance. The knife had been Arthur’s only means of defence should he be assaulted again, and he cared for her enough to give it up.

She let the knife glide into the waistband of her skirt, then left the room to have a look at the new schedule Dr. Stevens had mentioned.

When she glanced at the plan about the shifts and session-schedules that was always posted in the coffee-room Arkham’s therapists shared, it felt as if the floor was pulled out from under her feet. No. It couldn’t be.

Harleen didn’t know where her sudden resolve that day had come from, but she’d make use of it. Just as Arthur had told her to. It was time to stop smiling and start standing up for herself and what she wanted.

She was furious as she burst into the coordinator’s office burst into the office; not even the secretary in the crammed foyer had dared sending her away. Harleen had marched straight through the worn-out wooden door into the office.

“Ah, I suppose you’ve seen the new schedule then”, the elderly man mused behind his desk, twirling a gleaming black pen in his hands. The coordinator was a big man, and he looked rather like a walrus than an actual person. Harleen had talked to him only once in the three years she was working in Arkham.

“Yes. And I demand an explanation for you taking away my patients”, Harleen replied, blood rushing through her ears.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I only took away one patient. Arthur Fleck.”

“Why? Is there anything to criticise about my work? If so, I’d have appreciated constructive criticism instead.” She could barely keep her voice calm, but it would do no good if the coordinator saw her rage. It was okay to be angry if you were a man; but if you were female, rage was always attributed to being hysterical and unreasonable.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with you, Dr. Quinzel. But given the circumstances with the riots Mr. Fleck has started… the level of popularity demands a therapist more –“

“Male?”, Harleen finished the sentence for him. His eyes were gleaming in amusement, and he still kept twirling the stupid pen in his hands. Harleen wanted to punch him in the face.

“Someone with more experience. Dr. Stevens is the right therapist for the job. He’ll handle the press interviews as well.”

“Interviews?”, Harleen gasped. “Interviews about a patient? You can’t do this. It goes against everything we –“

“That’s none of your business anymore, Dr. Quinzel.” The amusement had left his gaze, leaving only coldness and irritation. “Please be so kind and close the door behind you.”

The conversation was over. As Harleen made her way back to the cubbyhole that was her office, she felt as if she might burst of fury. Back in her office, she closed the door and leaned her head against the cool wooden surface of it. A scream of anger and frustration tore through her, and it felt good to let it out. Then, the tears started flowing.

The sessions with Arthur in the white room – sweet, gentle, understanding Arthur – had helped her as much as him, she realized. He’d been like a lighthouse in a storm these past few weeks, and Harleen hadn’t even noticed until the very moment they’d taken away that light. Oh God. What would happen to Arthur now? Dr. Stevens was a good enough therapist, be he was also not a nice man. He was arrogant and Harleen knew how deeply he despised people like Arthur, people who didn’t fit with his understanding of normalcy.

Harleen didn’t know how long she’d sat there on the ground – forehead pressed against her door, crying her heart out like a little child – when another thought dawned on her. Arthur was not her patient anymore, but that implied that all boundaries and rules were declared null and void now. And – she realized with shock – there was little she wasn’t ready to do to see Arthur again. As she finally rose from the floor, wiping at her tears, something cold stung at her waist and she remembered the knife Arthur had given her mere hours ago because he wanted her to be safe. Harleen wanted to take the knife and stab the people responsible for taking away Arthur from her. She pulled it out of her skirt’s waistband where she’d tugged it earlier. Its blade was small but sharp. A few drops of fresh blood dribbled from its tip onto the floor – she’d accidentally cut herself. It had been stupid to take it. She needed to give it back to him as soon as possible.

She needed to find a way to see Arthur again.

It felt as if a strange gravity always seemed to pull her towards him. It frightened her, and at the same time it made her feel something she’d never felt before: _alive_. Harleen realized that she’d fallen for Arthur – for the Joker – over the course of those past few weeks, and she was finally ready to admit these feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there will be more action in the next chapter, which will be up in about 7 days :)


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur was practically bouncing with excitement the next day as the guards were escorting him to the white room.

“Stop smiling, clown”, one of them grunted, while the other sneered at him, “Freak.”

Arthur didn’t care. He was so giddy to see Harleen again, to talk to her –

He abruptly came to a halt in the doorway, startled, so that one of his guards gave him a painful shove in the back that made Arthur stumble forward into the white room. But the person sitting on the table, awaiting him, wasn’t Harleen. It was Dr. Stevens, the co-worker who’d been so rude to her.

Arthur felt the familiar tingling of rage blooming in his belly.

“Where’s Dr. Quinzel?”, he wanted to know.

“She’s not your therapist anymore. I’m Dr. Stevens.”

Arthur nodded his head, too caught up in his emotions to reply. It felt like a fever dream as he walked to the chair and let the guards chain him to the metal table. Had Harleen asked to have another patient instead of him? Didn’t she want to see him anymore? Arthur knew that only yesterday, Dr. Stevens had told Harleen something about changes in the schedule, but his own twisted mind and the demons lurking in its depths were beginning to whisper cruel things to him, as they’d always done.

_She’s had enough of you. What did you expect she’d do?_

Arthur wanted to tell those demons to shut up, to leave him alone for once, but he didn’t find the strength to battle them. Not without her help. Not when he didn’t know when – or rather, if – he was ever going to see her again.

***

Harleen had volunteered to take the nightshift for the next few days, and nobody had objected. The nightshift was straining, quiet and lonely – and it was just perfect for what she was planning. She knew Arkham well enough by now; every corridor, every nook and cranny. Arkham was the place where she’d spent more time of her everyday life than in her actual home, and Harleen planned to make use of it. She had brought the cardboard box with Arthur’s Joker-clothes and the plastic mask with her to work, where it was now safely stored under the desk in her tiny office. One day, she would give it back to Arthur. She imagined how he’d flash her one of his endearing smiles when she did, and the thought made her heart flutter. With a glance at the clown mask, she rose from her chair. It was time to put her plan into action.

The corridor with the solitary confinement cells was cordoned off by a pair of heavy steel doors, and guards were only positioned in front of these doors. All she had to do was get through this set of doors – the safety codes weren’t exactly a secret. All she’d have to do was wait until the guards were having their change of shift and sneak through.

***

Arthur was sleeping, but it wasn’t a peaceful slumber. He was caught in a tangle of nightmares, like a fly in a spider’s web while all these thoughts that were torturing him at daytime came back in full force. A scraping voice, like metal screeching over metal, rang through his head and he flinched at the shrill sound.

“Arthur.” It was a whisper, barely there, but Arthur instantly recognized the voice calling out his name.

“Arthur?” It sounded muffled, as if she was speaking through a blanket.

He woke with a start, the haziness of sleep and bad dreams still clung to him. He sat in his bunkbed and listened, but all Arthur could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and the thundering of his own erratic heartbeat. Arthur noticed he was drenched in sweat, his hair clung to his forehead in sticky strands, and he swiped it back. It was pitch black, but he was sure he was alone in his cell. Had he only imagined the voice? As he sat up in his bed, he finally noticed that the usual inky blackness in his cell was broken by a small sliver of light, streaming in from the direction of the door.

“Arthur?”

Yes, the voice was definitely real, and it was muffled because it came from the corridor outside his cell door. But… that couldn’t be. It was the middle of the night.

“Harleen?”, he whispered back in a croaky voice. Arthur noticed it was the first time he’d actually called her by her first name.

“I thought you were ignoring me”, came the answer from the other side of the door. Arthur threw back his blankets and quickly made his way to the door. The slot through which he received the trays with his meals had been opened – that had been the screeching noise – and the light from the corridor streamed inside. Little motes of dust drifted in the beam.

“I – why would I ignore you?”

Silence. Then, “I promise I didn’t have anything to do with what happened.”

Arthur nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see him. “Yeah. That’s what I thought at first. But not anymore”, he was quick to add.

“Did I – okay no, that’s a stupid question, of course I woke you. I’m sorry to –“

“No!”, he called out. “Don’t go, please… please stay.” Arthur realized how weak and pathetic he sounded right now, but he’d missed her so _badly_ it hurt almost physically.

“That was my intention”, her voice sounded amused, and with the way she’d said it, Arthur could feel she was smiling. If only he could see her.

“Why are you here?”, he breathed out. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would go to such lengths to talk to him. The knowledge that she’d done it nonetheless filled him with so much warmth that he felt as if his heart might bust with all the feelings it held for her.

“I missed your company, Arthur.”

“But… don’t you get fired if you do this?”

A small huff. “Nobody will notice. What about Dr. Stevens? Was he cruel to you?”

_Yes._

“No. It was okay.”

There was a span of silence again – a contented, peaceful silence – in which the two of them were just enjoying being in each other’s presence again.

“Do you miss your life before Arkham?”, she finally wanted to know.

He thought about it. “Not really. Small things, maybe. I was a party clown. Sometimes, I was sent to a children’s hospital. That’s what I miss, making those children smile.”

Arthur sat on the floor cross-legged, resting his head against the door.

“Harleen?”

A hum from the other side of the door to signal him to go on with whatever he’d wanted to tell her. It wasn’t that easy. Arthur couldn’t help it, he still dreaded that she’d judge him, see him for what he was and realize he wasn’t worth her time. It felt as if there was a thin thread anchoring him to sanity, with Harleen holding it in her hands. If she let go, Arthur knew he’d fall into the darkness that always seemed to reach out for him, pull him into its drowning depths with claws of shadows. He didn’t want to go there. Arthur was haunted by enough shadows to know how tight their grip on you was, once they got you in their embrace.

“I killed my mom.”

Silence, a noise of something shifting on the other side of the door. Arthur shut his eyes, panic searing in his chest. Was she leaving him now?

“Penny Fleck”, she said quietly, and Arthur tried to remember if he’d ever told Harleen his mother’s name.

“You don’t sound surprised. Or shocked.”

“I had a feeling about this. I know her patient records were stolen from the archive shortly before you arrived at Arkham.” She paused to let her words sink in. “I always wondered what you’d found in those records, though I presume it wasn’t something good.”

“Why did you never ask?”

He desperately wished he could see her face on the other side of the door separating them. See the expression in her beautiful eyes.

“I wanted you to tell me on your own terms, when you were ready. Did it help to kill her?”

“Don’t you want to know why I did it?”, he wondered.

“I’m afraid if you told me, it would open some wounds you’ve barely managed to patch up.”

He closed his eyes, his memories replaying in his head of the first time he’d set foot into Arkham. The black letters in the newspaper articles fluttering out of the patient file, the records of his mother’s lies, seeping into his mind, engraving themselves in his memories. One day, Arthur knew, he would tell Harleen everything. About the radiator, the ropes cutting into his wrists, leaving deep grazes in the soft skin. About how he’d always been woken by nightmares of a child screaming, a hand closing tightly around his throat – to find out it had never been just nightmares, but memories. Memories which could never be washed away, bruises in his soul that would never heal.

“She deserved it”, Arthur chortled, “I should’ve done it earlier. Though I’m free of her now.” 

The first giggles of another laughing fit hitching in his throat at the pain of these memories, he spread his hand on the smooth metallic surface of the door, wishing he could touch her.

Harleen must’ve had the same thought.

“I wish I could take your hand”, she murmured, his heart skipped a few beats at her words and in this moment, he wanted to dance around in his cell out of pure happiness as the upcoming fit quickly subsided.

“I wish I’d known you earlier, Arthur. Maybe things would have turned out different for the both of us.”

“We won’t know. I’m just glad I met you. Besides, I like being the Joker. Even though I’m locked in here, I’ve never felt this free in my entire life.”

***

As it was time to go back to her shift, for the rare case of her being needed this time of the night, she promised Arthur to come back and visit him as soon as possible. The guards threw suspicious glances her way as she emerged through the double doors behind them, but she raised her chin and strutted away. The trick was to let them think you had every right to be there. Simple psychology. Harleen grinned as she realized she wouldn’t have done such a thing a few weeks ago. She’d always had that part inside of her soul that craved _more_ , longed to be free and careless instead of the good, smiley girl she showed the world because it’s what people wanted to see.

Arthur hadn’t changed her – he’d helped her to wake this side slumbering inside her soul, to embrace it instead of hiding it away. Just as he’d done.

Harleen was rounding the corner to the corridor with her small office as a voice behind her called out her name and she whirled around. It was Dr. Stevens, and he jogging to catch up with her. She couldn’t suppress the flinch on her face.

“You didn’t do my paperwork”, he stated as he reached her.

“No”, she replied, and started for her office.

“Where have you been, doll?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. You should stop visiting patients in the dead of night. Is that why you wanted to take the nightshift?”

Her heart stopped, and Harleen froze, her hand gripping the handle of her office door so tightly that the skin on her knuckles went white.

“Why I took the nightshift is none of your business.” Her voice was trembling with suppressed rage and she swung open the door to step inside and slam it into Dr. Stevens face – as his huge hand landed on the wooden surface and held it open.

“It is, doll. Because the guidelines are requiring me to tell what you’re doing when nobody’s watching.”

“And of course you’ve already thought of a way for me to buy your silence”, she finished his sentence, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Clever girl. But you already know you’re clever. It doesn’t do you any good.”

Harleen leaned against the door to shut it, but Dr. Steven’s grip from the other side didn’t falter. Alarm bells started ringing in her head.

“You know, I hate nightshifts”, he mused as he easily pushed the door further open, despite her efforts to close it, and stepped inside with slow, deliberate steps, like a hunter circling his prey, “They’re so lonely. I thought you could join me.”

“Leave my office”, she demanded with a fervour she didn’t feel right now. _Swallow the panic_ , she told herself. _He’s not the first guy who gets clingy_. But he was the first one to get clingy without any witnesses around, she realized.

“I don’t think so”, he purred, taking another step towards her, backing Harleen into the desk. The back of her knees hit the hard wood. He flashed her a leering grin, and that’s when she knew he wouldn’t go away, that he was one of those men who simply took what they wanted. Usually, this kind of man sat opposite her, chained to a table.

Fear tightening her chest, she raised her knee and slammed it up into his crotch, then ducked under his grip, the door in front of her swung open as she turned the handle – but his hand gripped her hair and pulled her back with a force that made her head whip back. Her eyes watered as pain shot through her; and only through a haze of panic did she feel how he gripped her arms so tightly that she could already feel bruises form on her skin as he pressed her against the desk.

“You’ll like it, doll”, he crooned, and his stale breath hit her in the face, bile rising in her throat, “Smile for me, Harleen. It makes you prettier.”

Her whole body went numb. A rough hand groped at her thighs and Harleen thrashed in his firm grip, knowing he was too large and too strong for her. She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of Dr. Stevens’ leering grin, the feeling of his hands groping all over her body. It didn’t work. No one would hear her screams. No one would believe her what had happened in this office. No one but Arthur. Sweaty hands pressed over her mouth, and she gagged, her lungs constricting.

 _Arthur_. Her sweet, gentle Arthur, who’d insisted on her taking his knife to defend herself, who somehow had feared this moment long before she had. Harleen forced her muscles to relax, her mind to clear from the wisps of panic clouding it, then slowly reached a hand down to the waistband of her shirt, the cool handle of the knife tucked inside greeting her like an old friend.

Harleen didn’t hesitate for a second. With a movement so quick he didn’t see it coming, she stabbed the knife into Dr. Steven’s upper leg. He screamed and let go of her, but he was still blocking the door, her only way to escape. It was still open from her previous attempt to flee.

“Bitch”, he growled and reached for the knife lodged deep inside his leg, blood was already gushing out of the wound and staining the white linoleum floor.

If he got the knife in his hands, it was over. Harleen knew that. With a swift movement, she kicked her leg into his shin, knocking him back onto the floor as she pulled the knife out of his leg in a flourish, ignoring the pained scream that tore through his throat.

“I’ll tell them you attacked me”, he spat, crawling backwards now through the door and into the corridor, his evil eyes never leaving hers. It was funny, she thought, how everybody assumed people like Arthur to be monsters, while being utterly unaware of the real monsters roaming the city, the ones who used cruelty because they _savoured_ it instead of a means of defence.

“Nobody will believe you, bitch”, he seethed, his face contorted in pain. The amount of blood on the floor rose, but Harleen knew it wasn’t a fatal wound. And she knew that he was speaking the truth.

“Yes. Nobody will believe me if I tell them what you did”, Harleen agreed with him, her gaze firmly locked on his. Because then, they’d have to face the fact that monsters are good at hiding, that every single one of them could be a victim. It was easier to look away. That’s what people always did.

She was stepping towards him, her white sneakers soaking up the blood streaming over the cheap floor in rivulets. 

“I’m tired of people like you, Dr. Stevens.” Harleen suddenly felt calm and peaceful. The knife’s handle was firm in her grip, the metal warmed by her touch. Another step, and another, slowly, because she had all the time in the world to reach him. He wouldn’t get far with the hurt leg. A giggle escaped Harleen’s throat, surprising her. Not a giggle of joy, but one of satisfaction. Arthur’s knife in her hand – reminding her of his warm, calloused fingers locked with hers in the white room, the memory of this moment – filled her with peace and serenity.

Dr. Stevens must have seen something in her face, her eyes, because the leer of someone who knew he’d win in the long run, vanished and was replaced by something more primal. Fear. If it was the same fear Harleen had felt only minutes ago? 

Another step, and she was towering over him. Her brain seemed to work on autopilot by now, and she felt so unbelievably far away as she grabbed his grimy hair, pulled back his head and slashed his throat. She’d talked to enough murderers to know how to strike a killing blow.

Blood splashed in every direction, like a burbling little fountain. Harleen flinched as the dying man in her grip let out a strangled sound, and she let go of him. She stared at the scene in front of her. Had her heart hammered this loud all the time? Had her hands been shaking like this? There was blood everywhere, tarnishing the whiteness. It looked as if the true foundations of Arkham were soaking through all the white like water through a cloth, showing what was underneath, inside these murals.

The corpse in front of her stared up at the dirty ceiling in a contorted frown.

Harleen kneeled down, careful not to stain her clothes in the already cloying red that still seeped out of the deep gush across his throat. Then, slowly, she dipped her index finger into the puddle of blood, dragging it through the warm liquid. With a swift movement, she put her blood-soaked finger on his lips, lips that had told her to smile for him while he’d been groping at her, hurting her. Savouring the moment, Harleen painted a velvet smile onto Dr. Stevens’ lifeless face, the blood sticking better and more vibrant than any of her lipsticks at home. When she was done, she took a few seconds to admire her work, before she rose to her feet again.

“You look prettier when you smile”, she told him and turned, Arthur’s knife tightly in her other hand. The time was ripe to get the man she loved out of this rotten place.


End file.
